


Do It Again

by Hypatikar



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: 50s Noir Themes, Amnesiac Courier (Fallout), Author is a pseudo-intellectual, Author is also a pseudo-philosopher, Autistic Mr. House, Canon-Typical Sexism, Canon-Typical Violence, Clueless Geniuses, Coming of Age, Cynicism, Dark Comedy, Denial of Feelings, Devil's Advocate, Dialogue Heavy, Dorks in Love, Eventual Romance, F/M, Female Anti-Hero, Freudian Elements, Glacial-Paced Romance, House-Aligned Courier, Human Trafficking, Mildly Sociopathic Courier, Moral Ambiguity, Nerdiness, Nonchalance, POV Third Person Limited, Philosophical ramblings, Political Incorrectness, Psychoanalytical Meandering, Psychological, Realpolitik, Sarcasm, Slavery, Slightly Annoying Protagonist, Some headcanon, Somewhat Gritty, This Entire Story Was Inspired By Steely Dan's "Can't Buy a Thrill" Album, Unbiased Legion Portrayal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26973052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatikar/pseuds/Hypatikar
Summary: Eris liked to play the philosopher, the jester, the degenerate, but she knew very little about who she really was or what her purpose was supposed to be. What begins as an opportunity to play with something larger than herself quickly unfolds into a journey of self-discovery, maturity, and discovering if the meaning of life was purely a subjective question after all.
Relationships: Female Courier & Arcade Gannon, Female Courier & Swank, Female Courier & Vulpes Inculta, Female Courier/Mr. House (Fallout)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	1. Part I, Chapter I: The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: It is disappointing that House is judged as less than savory by the community. There is much potential to expand upon his character, and I'm excited to capitalize on it. The relationship between these two will begin as purely a business partnership, though eventually it will develop into something a bit different. Not exactly the romance you might be familiar with, but something I don't expect to be able to explain. I found a lot of enjoyment writing Eris, this fic's OC, and House. If you were unaware, Eris is named after a Greek mythological deity whose sphere is treachery, cunning, and deceit. Needless to say, I have a lot of fun writing her chaotic thought process. As an FYI, this story is going to be told by third person limited, which means the narrator is not always going to be reliable, and periodically, I will switch between perspectives, though the majority of it will be written from my protagonist's telling.
> 
> Furthermore, this story will be split into different parts. I'm unsure where I will split the parts regarding chapter organization, but it will remain a single story nonetheless.
> 
> I was somewhat inspired to write this due to some of House's cut content. Supposedly, there was a plan to be able to use the Black Widow perk on him, which means he's not as secure with his loneliness as he makes it out to be. Also, I think the connection between Courier Six and Mr. House is pretty intimate in-game - he had a hand in how you nearly died, he likely knows some about your past, and you are the only human whom he trusts enough to allow into the Lucky 38. There's a lot of potential there. The questionable relationship between these two will not be the main focus in the beginning, though I believed it was fitting to start this story with their meeting. Plus, no one wants a play-by-play retelling of waking up in Goodsprings and going through all that for the millionth time. I surely don't. There will be a mix between canonical dialogue and original dialogue throughout this fic.
> 
> I chose Steely Dan's "Do it Again" due to the themes found in the lyrics. It fits the mood of this story pretty well - a cycle of tragedy, violence, crime, and addiction, and everyone knows these things are debilitating, yet they continue to partake in the cycle. Invariably, we see the effects that these tragedies have on our lives, and we do them again and again.
> 
> This work is also on Fanfiction.net and I am working on importing it chapter-by-chapter to AO3. Here's the link if you don't want to wait for it on here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13649594/1/Do-It-Again

_Now you swear and kick and beg us that you're not a gambling man_

_Then you find you're back in Vegas with a handle in your hand_

_Your black cards can make you money so you hide them when you're able_

_But in the land of milk and honey, you must put them on the table_

_You go back, Jack, do it again_

_Wheel turning 'round and 'round_

_-_ "Do It Again", by Steely Dan

* * *

Some said man was motivated by lust, some "wise" men said greed. Others still said that man was motivated by his primitive need to prove himself to that inescapable, primitive figure of God and his counterpart - Satan, figures that remained to haunt man's psyche even if all idols of the old world were washed away to become nothing but a collection of ruins. That primitive need to satisfy these enigmatic figures lingered.

Or, so said Eris, who wanted most of all for her wisdom to be novel and unique to her. But in reality, she'd read Freud, and knowing how controversial his logic would be in urban life, she liked to use it. Really, she just liked telling a woman that their angst came from a desire to fuck their father, the reactions were always priceless. Eris couldn't remember where she read Freud, but she didn't exactly have any participatory memories left over from her previous life. She had nothing, she had no one. It was absurd, absurd because this is just the thing she could laugh off. Anytime one of these locals would tell her their cuisine was the best she'd ever remember, for once, her reply was the truth.

Benny had robbed her of her delivery, and her memories, which she held no attachment to, oddly enough. She wasn't the clingy sort. Every night since she'd woken up in that dingy house in Goodsprings, she'd fallen asleep to the image of Benny and those Great Khans with fucked up hairstyles, and unfailingly, she'd laughed at the image nearly every time. Often, she wondered if she had always been such an absurdist. Would've been perfect for the courier line of work, especially considering all the fucked up things she'd probably seen on her travels. She likely got desensitized to gore and manipulation somewhere down the line. Getting shot and shoved into a hole in the ground wasn't that surprising to her, even when she was laying in the dirt, she was probably used to this.

And that was how she'd found herself in Freeside. She'd left Goodsprings in the dust, though a tiny, "normal", part of her would always be indebted to the doctor. But that place was just too quiet, too peaceful. Eris needed chaos in order to truly thrive, she'd understood that when her blood began pumping with adrenaline as soon as that fight with the Powder Gangers commenced. But even that wasn't enough. Fighting wasn't exactly her first go-to. She preferred talking, and she was good at talking. When she couldn't find a verbal sparring partner in Goodsprings, that was the end of that. Maybe her new (or was it former?) employer, Mr. House, would be stimulating. Maybe she could tell him his angst was due to his overwhelming desire to fuck his likely dead mother, and he wouldn't bat an eye.

Now, from what she'd heard of House since waking, he was a "complicated" man. But Eris knew what that really meant. That meant he maintained an enigmatic facade in order to either attract the ladies, or because he had nothing else going for him except mystique. Whatever. She'd find the answer to her question soon.

"What do you mean, I need 2,000 caps, you bucket of bolts. Stop pretending to be a cop, and do your job as a machine. That is, submit to your master, the human. Oh, speaking of master, tell _your_ master that his courier is here. Uh, expanding on that, the _sixth_ courier. He should know what that means, I've heard he's a clever man." She flashed what she hoped was a charming smile, even though the receiving end of it was a literal machine who she imagined had two lines - acceptance of identification or violence. "Here here. Get going! Are you in need of an engraved invitation or something? 'You are cordially invited to tell House to let Eris in, because he is interested in it and none-too subtle with how he spies on his courier using Victor.'"

The image on its screen flickered for a moment. Finally, an answer. She remembered Victor's screen doing that right before his speech changed to a more eloquent vernacular. This ghost of Vegas, whom she'd overheard the locals call 'Not-At-Home', wasn't fooling her. He'd spied on her for the entirety of the past month through that sad, robotic excuse of a cowboy. Victor. How she'd began to loathe the sight of it. Eris reasoned that there was nothing truly strange in this universe considering no human had any other point of reference except this reality, but she supposed that robots belonged to the 'peculiar' category. She didn't question the why of her thinking they were peculiar, case in point that nothing was exactly strange.

"Go on in. Your entrance has been cleared." Its low, metallic voice sounded. She rolled her eyes, and looked behind her at Freeside. A crowd had gathered to watch the show, and she waved at them.

Now everyone knew she was the famed sixth courier. That was fine with her. She had no secrets, and she liked being underneath the show lights. But her real passion was philosophy. And also cigarettes. She'd thought about naming herself Nico, because she loved nicotine. But that would be really grimy, and while she liked to live the free, low life, she also liked to walk the line between complete degenerate and intellectual. So naturally, she'd chosen a figure from the Greek myths, myths that belonged to a people she could sympathize with - complete degenerates whose men fucked other men and liked to wax intellectual. Maybe she'd be mistaken for a Legion sympathizer, but really, she didn't have much of a problem with them. Further, there were so many people who disagreed with Legion ideals, which could open up new opportunities for her to attack them with principles she didn't even believe in.

She laughed at her musings, and walked between the opening in the large, tacky, orange gate. She wasn't unimpressed with what she found. A sprawling urban network of people, neon lights, music, and festivities. So much novelty, so much opportunity. She wasn't all too surprised Benny came from a place like this - this kind of life could make a man feel utterly disconnected from the woes of the world, like he owned all ethics.

Frank Sinatra's _Blue Moon_ played loudly on the speakers from a place whose title was Gomorrah. She knew that, because it was engraved in massive, tacky, flashing letters. And were those hookers in their street, flashing their bodies to NCR troopers? Oh yeah. This is just the place. A nest of moral decay, this would work just fine. Eris lit a cigarette, and waltzed up to the doors of the Lucky 38. There stood, and of course it could be no one else: Victor. Rolling her eyes, her mood already just slightly soured, she crossed her arms, her cigarette hanging from the tips of her thin fingers.

"Well, well. If it isn't my least favorite bot in the Mojave. And that's saying a lot, Victor. Congratulations! You're the Minnesota Fats of being annoying. Because the lot of you are beginning to blow my fuse. No pun intended, of course. Hope that didn't strike a chord you'll need to use in the future." Smugly, she waited for its no-doubt automated response. It couldn't argue against her, which meant she could call him any name in the book and he would be powerless to do anything about it.

"Howdy there, darlin'! I'll admit, I reckoned ya might've gotten lost out there, with the pace you were keepin'! Mr. House is waitin' upstairs for ya in his office. It's best not to keep him waitin'!" The statement was cleverly disguised as a joke, but she took it the way she was sure House meant it. It was a demand, not a request.

"I'd hate to keep House waiting. I mean, who knows all the discord I could start sowing in the few minutes it'd take to get up to his 'office'. It's not like I have anything better to do.."

So like the good courier she prided herself to be, she followed Victor into the casino. She didn't have much of an expectation for it, but she had thought there would at least be a few shifty characters lounging around, if the streets outside were any indication. There was none of that. It was silent, like the grave she'd been pulled out of before she quickly began annoying the shit out of Goodsprings locals. It would've presented a somber scene, if she were more poetic and less of an action woman. The cash registers were unattended, the tables were empty save for the decks of cards left neatly stacked and abandoned, as if when the bombs hit, the inhabitants simply dropped whatever they were doing, politely shuffled and stacked the cards, and high-tailed it out of there to go back home. Maybe it was regret for all that materialism they engaged in, maybe that was their last thoughts. Their minds were so focused on gain that they'd forgot more domestic obligations.

All these things shifted through her mind as she boarded the elevator with the 'Lucky 38' sigil on the doors. Her chaotic thought process was nothing new to her anymore. It was her constant companion throughout her travels - the only thing that prevented her from going fully insane, instead of the half-insane state she currently teetered on. That and Benny. She just had to meet the fella. The elevator ceased its movement, curing her of her now-nauseous stomach. Half because of high nicotine intake, half because of the movement. The bell dinged, signaling it was time for her to get off.

The penthouse was eerily silent, unlike its cousin, the casino, which was only solemnly quiet. The distinction was important to her. Her head whipped around, looking for any indication of an office desk, or something reminiscent of a corporate overlord. But there was none to be found. She smoothed down her blonde hair, hoping her presentation, ergo performance, would be a marvel. She'd cleaned up nice for the Strip. She felt like a doll playing dress up considering she cared very little for her physical appearance, but others seemed to have a preoccupation with vanity. Vanity was a useful tool in her otherwise cramped toolbox.

Her heels made light tapping sounds on the spotless tiles. _Clank, clank, clank_. The noise was irritating, to be sure. Why is it that men have such a fixation with women who wore heels? That leads her right back to the hypothesis that they want to fuck their mothers. Brilliant. _Bingo, Freud._

She assumed something mysterious would be hidden behind the thin, red curtains. Everything mysterious was hidden behind curtains. There was a securitron with what looked like a starlet's face programmed onto the screen. She grimaced at its suspected purpose, but offered nothing in the way of conversation to it. She'd already cringed ten times on the walk _and_ elevator ride here. She didn't need one more cringe.

The largest computer monitor she thinks (because she doesn't rightly know) she's ever seen is what meets her. It is blank, devoid of life, with nothing but a message about a lost connection. Instantaneously, it flickered to life, and soon was there a digital, black and green image of a pre-war gentleman, whom she assumed was Mr. House. He was handsome, perhaps on the older side, but he appeared charming enough. The corner of one of his lips was pulled up in what looked to be a smirk, and she half-snorted at that. That took a calculated measure of snark, to forever plant a smirking image of yourself on a giant monitor. Maybe, just maybe, she'd like House. But there was no way she was referring to him as 'sir', she'd had enough of those titles after leaving Goodsprings, the town where she was obligated to call the doctor 'doc'.

Slowly, what she hoped was additionally irritatingly, she walked up to the monitor, and took a drag from her cigarette. Playfully, she blew the exhale over the face of House. Imagine that, a digital ghost dying of smoke inhalation. Eris wondered briefly if she should be blaming her tragedy on House and not Benny, seeing as he seemed to be the lord of this land. But she knew better than to blame all her woes on authority figures. It was the people's choice, after all, to follow a leader. She would admit to some anticipation in meeting House, for after she'd heard which master Benny slaved under, she knew this was the _real_ objective. Meeting Benny and possibly giving him a taste of his own medicine was small-time, void of any real substance. Vengeance wasn't a _novel_ motive, it wasn't too exciting either. If Eris could say anything about herself, it was that she was more interested in the big players.

"This meeting has been a long time coming, hasn't it? You've come a long ways literally and, I suspect figuratively, as well." The booming voice echoed off the stark, empty floor. It was cold, practiced speech, though not lacking in purpose or even humanity. Every syllable was pronounced with this quasi-aristocratic edge that somehow also sounded like its owner's nose was high in the air. Before she could formulate a snide comment on that, he continued his speech, which she was convinced he'd planned since she was dug out of that lonely hole in Goodsprings. She imagined a tall, aristocratic man pacing back and forth in his 'office' practicing and honing his first words to her over and over until he found the right inflections, vocabulary, and delivery. "I am compelled to ask - now what you've reached your destination, what do you make of what you see?"

Oh, so he liked using big words. Well, she knew a lot of big words too, only she couldn't answer _how_ she knew. And there were so many answers to his question, she wasn't entirely sure how to answer him. She could appeal to his ego and tell him truthfully that she liked his city, but she made a living making assumptions based on her readings of people, and it would be boring to stroke his no-doubt huge ego. That would be too boring. In truth, from what she'd seen thus far, Vegas _was_ indeed impressive. And no, she hadn't seen anything like it, or else, she didn't _remember_ seeing anything like it. Little details of the city could be improved, that much rang true. Gomorrah's flashing sign looked atrocious, and all the inhabitants she'd seen since coming here looked like their souls were being sapped out by some ancient Canaanite deity of human sacrifice. She hoped no one ever asked her how she knew the word Canaanite, because she'd have to come up with some half-assed explanation.

"So, do you want me to answer you as a subordinate to a crony capitalist, or as the liberator of Goodsprings, the conqueror of brain damage, and the remover of lost souls nailed to crosses?" She asked. The audible sigh that could be heard on the other end turned one corner of her mouth up, her expression now matching the face in front of her.

"I will ignore your very 'subtle' insult, Miss, and your grievous attempt at humor. I have always taken business seriously, and I expect you to do the same. Deflecting the question only makes you seem like you're playing the fool, and your play doesn't fool me. It's obvious to me that materialism and ravenous consumption, both of which thrive in excess in my city, has done nothing to impress you. So, come now, don't play the fool. Vegas has fools enough, a superfluity of them. They're what makes it so profitable." She blinked, a small part of her was surprised at his dismissal of her performance. "They come to Vegas chasing penny-ante dreams of high-living, to feel like they're winners. You see that you and I are of a different stripe, don't you? We don't have to dream that we're important. We are."

_We don't have to dream that we're important. We are._ The confidence he seemed to have in himself would've been inspiring if she had any ego underneath her persona. Unfortunately for him, she had no need to make herself seem more important than she was. He was buttering her up in the most detached way possible - making her feel like she was part of something, like they were a collective, when he said 'we'. It immediately caused her to narrow her eyes, trying to find the malicious undertones in the words, but she couldn't. Surely, he didn't think they were a team, for this couldn't be blatantly more one-sided. He'd planned for her to come here, he'd practiced every word so far, it was obvious. So why did he want to butter her up? She could think of a few different reasons, mostly pertaining to Benny. There was a lot of questions she wanted to ask House, but he seemed so rigidly no-nonsense and direct that she'd likely have to butter _him_ up too, before she could ask. If he was trying to be subtle about him wanting something done, he was doing a poor job. But his performance thus far was sound. She could steal a thing or two, maybe.

Actually, strike that. He did say not to play the coy fool, and that's exactly what she would do. He probably thought he could discourage the act by calling her out, but he was dealing with a different variety of mailman.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, House, but I don't think you're giving me the elite treatment purely out of a desire to be wholesome. Now, I'm not saying you _can't_ be a wholesome guy, but I fail to see how you gain from treating me like Vegas royalty. If my curiosity is correct, and I'm pretty sure it is - since I asked everyone and their mother about you, I'm the first person who's ever stepped in here in centuries."

"Oh, don't be coy.." The cunning in his tone masked the underlying irritation he surely felt. She wasn't giving the House enough credit - he did make a charming first impression, but she had a feeling she was likely one of the only people who'd ever refer to this corporate executive/centuries-old cyborg as something so base and human as 'charming'. "You've been playing a high stakes game ever since Victor dug you out of the grave. Don't be afraid to admit it, Miss Eris. I think you're _afraid_ to admit that you like gambling with fate, especially when the risk is as high as the gain. The vast majority of the people, or customers, you see outside of the window like to play at gambling. A 99.7% chance to lose every single cap in their pockets, for a low chance to win something material. Trading material for material, it's a low stakes game. But you and I, we are willing to risk our lives for success. To us, the vision is all that matters."

Eris wouldn't admit it aloud, but she didn't exactly have a vision. She was good at pretending she did, though. There were too many things to do to focus her brainpower on only one thing. But if it helped her gain House's trust, she could play along.

"So all these humans are only 'customers' to you? Charming." She snorted, looking for an ashtray she could drop her cigarette butt in.

In truth, she didn't exactly care for them either. They formed the setting for her, and nothing more. She could pretend to weep about their tragedies until the moon came out tonight, and while a small, empathetic part of her could sympathize with those people out in Freeside, she knew the truth. If they could cease their moping about, they could probably be someone, instead of hollow shells which only served to decorate the sad, sorry scene that was outer Vegas.

"We'll have plenty of time to wax philosophical about the woes of the small folk at a later time. Besides, don't try to fool me into believing you actually care for them as more than just a useful collective for profit and gain. It is below you. I watched your entrance into my city, and you made for my casino as though you knew that this was the most significant place in the city that mattered." One of her brows arched up at that, but she said nothing for once. "Now, down to business. The business is this. One of my employees has stolen an item of extraordinary value from me, and I want it recovered. Simple enough?"

No. There wasn't anything about this universe that was simple. Everything was interconnected in a complicated web, its intricacy unfathomable to anyone who receives even an inkling of it. Maybe House was good at simplifying things, but Eris only saw room for complicating them.

"Actually, I have some questions for you. I know, I know, you're in a rush.. but entertain me, will you?" Her smile was lop-sided, hopefully it was enough to fool him into thinking she wasn't _too_ interested in his scheme of things. In all actuality, she was dying of curiosity inside.

"Very well. What did you wish to know?" Came the stone-cold response she was beginning to expect from this machine.. man, it was difficult to keep up with all the modifications people made these days.

"What is this Platinum Chip? Now, I get that it's important to you, but I did nearly die trying to deliver it. It's safe to say I have a right to know."

"It's a very special item." His tone switched from business-like to passionate in one split second. "There's nothing else like it in the entire world. It was lost for a long time, and difficult to find." And just like that, it was back to business. She was beginning to think he possessed a very one-track mind. "That's all you need to know about it, for this stage of our enterprise. Fulfill your contract, deliver the chip, and good things will come your way."

She didn't like the way he talked down to her as if she were a child, but she didn't let something petty like hurt feelings get in the way of profit. Those things were for the idiots outside wasting their life's earning on hookers and booze, disappointing their metaphorical godhead that was the NCR. Maybe there was some brain damage in there. Actually, there was confirmed temporal lobe damage, but that was besides the point. She didn't have much love for NCR, and she didn't know if that was a lingering dislike from her past life or not. But she got a itching hunch that House felt similarly to her, though maybe for differing reasons. From what she'd seen of the NCR, they were a nest of degeneracy and corrupt bureaucracy, a reemergence of the old world incarnate. Wise men said history was the same events happening over and over in a chain, with the only difference between chain links being that they were covered in a different coat of paint.

There was one tiny problem in House's explanation of the chip. If it was so important, why send someone obviously young and apparently physically diminutive to deliver it? She didn't know her real age exactly, but it was obvious she wasn't even in her early twenties, if even twenty at all. The doctor in Goodsprings had confirmed it as much.

"If what you say is true and it is indeed valuable, why use only one, single courier, weak and _female_ as I am?" She asked, slyly crossing her arms.

"You do realize you were only one of many couriers, the rest of them dummies, so to speak? In addition to that, many thousands of caps spent hiring mercenaries and protection to screen your avenue of approach. Had I used an armed caravan to transport the chip, I might as well have been announcing to the world 'this is important. Attack this!'" Alright, he did do a good impression of a caravan guard announcing the importance of his goods, she could admit that easily. "I didn't want to attract the attention of groups like the Great Khans or the Brotherhood of Steel. Alas.. the real threat was closer to home." There was a hint of disappointment in his voice, either at himself or Benny. Though considering his obvious confidence in himself, it was unlikely that it was the former.

Still, there was the same impulse remaining in her mind. That impulse that drove her to pick apart people's ideas, plans, and convictions until they were driven to reinforce their defenses. She searched and searched for some kind of opening she could prod at, and it took her a few moments before she spoke up again.

"Why don't you send your robots into the Tops to arrest our boy?" A laugh beamed from the back of her throat as she finished her question. Not likely, but worth mentioning nonetheless. If there was anything, _anything_ , she could cling onto as a beacon of her pride, it was her ability to read people and find their weaknesses and the kind of defenses they used to reinforce them. House was perpetually annoyed it seemed, he could be a good partner for prodding and irritating.

"Frontal assaults on casinos? Not good for business." _Ha!_ She knew he'd say something like that. "In any case, Benny would see it coming. And all he'd have to do is hold up the chip and point a pistol at it. Our foremost advantage is that Benny doesn't know that I know he has the chip - let's not squander it."

"With all due respect, your majesty, I think both of us place too much importance on Benny here. He's just a victim of circumstance, an opportunist who took the wrong opportunity. He isn't a goddamn mastermind, just a gangster. Plenty of those where I come from." Actually, there was none of those where she came from as far as she knew, but it sounded like the right thing to say for the moment.

"While that may be true, that he is worthless on the cosmological scale of things, he is our highest priority for as long as he carries the chip on his person." He offered little else after that dismissal. His drive would've been admirable if she wasn't such a curious mind. A Pandora, as it were.

"And so, what terms do you offer?" She asked, keeping her tone light and disinterested, even though she was already becoming quickly invested in this drama.

"My sole concern is with the Platinum Chip. What happens to Benny, I leave to your discretion. When you bring the Chip to me, I will pay you four times the delivery bonus stipulated in your contract. How's that?" His tone was falsely indulgent. If he thought she was interested in material gain, he was dead wrong. He'd have to drive a better bargain.

"Hmm.. I suppose that will do.." She looked down at her nails, playing the act of the pampered urban princess. "I don't have anywhere to stay. I'm a vagrant, pitiful and born of neglect.. I need a place to stay, and this place isn't exactly spilling with customers. Think you can sweeten the deal by giving me a suite? Out of the goodness and purity of your mechanical heart, of course. Based on the absolute state of Freeside, it's painfully clear you care a lot for the sick and needy. Be a good corporate overlord and at least pretend to donate to the less fortunate?"

A sharp sigh sounded through the speakers, and she knew she'd hit the nail on the head. Now, if she could walk out of here still breathing, that'd be a figurative _cha-ching_.

"As an employee of mine, you are overstepping your boundaries. I expect you to maintain at least some pretense of civility when we have these discussions, for future reference. Though seeing as I believe you will prove useful in these endeavors, I will allow you to see just a slice of what I can offer you. The Presidential Suite is at your disposal, you may use it however you see fit while you work for me. It has gone unused long enough, and it is no longer useful to me. Do with it as you please - use it for yourself, use it as a base of operations for you and whoever accompanies you. However, if the latter is its use, there is one condition. You may not allow _others_ to roam freely throughout my casino." The deal was fair.

"Offer accepted. You ever thought about entering the real estate industry?" She quipped. "Don't answer that. I know it's going to be a dismissal either way. I have one other question, House. Who are you? Before I go risking my life for you _again_ , I want to know just who I'm working for. I'm sure you understand."

"I am Robert Edwin House. President, CEO, and sole proprietor of the New Vegas Strip. It was I who oversaw the city's renovations starting from 2274 onward. The Three Families are my employees. Before the Great War of 2077, I was the founder, President and CEO of RobCo Industries, a vast computer and robotics corporation." He answered, a less than subtle hint of pride in his voice.

On impulse, she looked down at the Pip-Boy strapped tightly onto her right arm. So this was the mastermind behind the contraption on her wrist? She had complaints for him, then. This piece of tech was, at times, clunky, and other times it wasn't heavy enough. Plus, she didn't fancy its color. It reminded her of the puddles of radioactive waste outside of Goodsprings. Later, she'd have to point that out to him.

There was the other problem, too. He spoke about how he was that mythical figure of Robert House, the same Robert House who founded RobCo Industries, but how? Yeah, she'd heard of even odder things happening out in the wastes, but this sounded pretty far out even to her.

"Are you the real Robert House, or.." She paused in suspense, "An imposter? Because if so, I'll have to file a complaint with his offices."

It was possible that one day, this facade of playfulness and frivolity of hers would be handed to her on a silver platter. If it was by the Legion, the platter would be covered in Brahmin blood, and if it were by the NCR, it'd be covered in cash. But it was so hard for her to take any of this seriously. She'd get the job done, but the smile just couldn't be wiped off her face. These stories belong in a book of tall tales, or did they? Briefly, she wondered if everyone thought their lives were unique like the myths of Aesop. Probably.

"Don't let the video screens and computer terminals fool you. I'm flesh and blood, not silicon." He said, his tone suggesting he was through with this conversation ages ago. Unfortunately for him, she was completely invested, but since he was obviously immortal, she had all the time in the world to come back and annoy him. She'd take mercy on him just this once.

"Okay, I have more questions that you _should_ feel obligated to answer at a later time. But I think both of us can agree Benny has to be dealt with.. unfortunately.." She sighed dramatically. While she didn't really care about Benny, she was a dramatist, and he contributed to her tragedy. It would be a damn shame if she didn't capitalize on it. "How can I find him and get to him?"

"It won't be easy. Benny is always surrounded by at least four bodyguards - except when he's in his private suite on the 13th floor of the Tops.. Look for a man named Swank, Benny's second-in-command. He's always been a reliable, if unimaginative, employee. Do your best to convince him that you're working under my auspices. Or, if you have evidence of Benny's crimes, show it to him."

She would take the diplomatic approach to this, she reasoned. The biggest advantage that stood out from all the blatant disadvantages of believing in nothing was that it was easy to adapt and pretend to believe in anything. She'd play this by ear, that's how almost all scenarios requiring diplomacy worked best.

"One last question, before I get to work." She held up one finger in emphasis, laying it on her chin, reminiscent of 'The Thinker'.

"Very well. What did you want to know?"

"Why exactly did Benny betray you? I'm asking so that in the event of any betrayal I hatch, you won't see it coming." She half-joked. This is something she liked doing, planting an honest seed and masking it with humor. You never knew when you'd have to turn your back on someone.

"Your humor leaves _much_ to be desired. Concerning Benny's betrayal, I have to think that he found out about the Platinum Chip and mistakenly convinced himself that he could use it to his own ends. But one of only several problems of a tribal work force, I'm afraid. No intuitive understanding of how complex technologies can be."

"I see. I guess I'll see you when I have the chip then." She turned around, facing the area she came from. "Good to meet you, _sir_." She laughed all the way to the elevator, the sound blocking his irritated reply. This would be rewarding. If it ended poorly, then at least it could still be a good story.


	2. Part I, Chapter II: Kid Charlemagne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This next chapter will be a bit slower-paced than the introductory first chapter. Here, Eris will meet some of the other players around town and realize that she's a part of something larger than just a delivery contract.

_While the music played, you worked by candlelight  
_

_Those San Francisco nights, they were the best in town_

_Just by chance you crossed the diamond with the pearl_

_You turned it on the world, that's when you turned the world around_

_Did you feel like Jesus?_

_Did you realize that you were a champion in their eyes?_

_-"Kid Charlemagne", by Steely Dan_

* * *

What drove man to fixate on standing out from the others? Was it retribution from their own subjective godhead, or was it more base than that? Example being, finding a mate to procreate with? Either two options, in all actuality, were no more base than the other. Both were primitive fulfillment of a need belonging to the realm of physiology and psychology respectively. It was easier to say man stood out from other men simply because of masculine competition. But if that were true, why was it that even the godhead made a vain attempt at supremacy, given that it had no earthly competition? Surely, celestial wars could theoretically be waged, but in the realm of the human psyche, which was confined to tangible things, why is it that man has this nigh unquenchable thirst to excel above others?

In a rare moment of seriousness, Eris considered the dilemma that was Benny. His story was inspiring for any ambitious soul, but it was a pity that his story would likely end soon rather than later. But as with everything, there was a time for love and a time for hate, a time for peace and a time for war - at least that's what the Bible said. Her eyes skimmed over the tiny, stained material she currently was reading. They were all useful words written by sagely men who lived thousands of years ago. She supposed it was true that all things happened in the course of cycles, but why was it that man understood this intuitively but chose to continue the cycle nonetheless? One more mystery in the scrap heap of the unsolved.

As much as she was okay with sitting here and thinking like she so often was content to do, she did tell House she'd bring out the pest control. Agent Eris, Pest Control. Insect type - Chairmen, species - Benny.

Success in this circumstance came intertwined with fun, and so she searched for a dress that would fit her comparatively small frame. The dames that owned these dresses must have been inching on six feet at least. Unsurprising, considering they weren't as malnourished as the average sorry excuse of a scavver out in the Wastes. If it were up to Eris, she'd walk into the Tops naked, without even a fig branch covering her unmentionables, whatever the hell a 'fig' was. She was old-fashioned like that. House probably wouldn't appreciate that, but she was sure those NCR troopers that were currently drooling over hookers outside would be overjoyed. Benny probably would too, if those troopers were any indication of the average man faced with a pair of breasts.

So, she wouldn't do anything with her hair. It was straight and never held any style in it. It was blonde, what she assumed was a pretty, light golden color. Even if it wasn't pretty, it was novel out in the Wastes, where nearly everyone could say they were of mixed race, heterogeneity having escaped them. That line of thought led her through a series of curiosity concerning what exact hole she'd crawled out of, besides the obvious one back in Goodsprings. Maybe House would know, but he seemed like a man who would use that as leverage if she even brought it up. That was a problem for future Eris to solve.

She took that dreadfully annoying Pip-Boy off her right wrist, rubbing at the indention it left on her skin. Slipping into the red cocktail dress she'd found, something that looked small enough to fit her, she pulled it up and tied up the excess, hanging fabric in the back with bobby pins. Those people wouldn't notice it anyways. But if they looked close enough, they would clearly see that there was a small stain on the ass of the dress. She didn't even want to know where that came from, curiosity aside. Who knows what kind of dirty dames House entertained in his golden days, a man that wealthy and successful likely had countless women who were willing to share their assets for a slice of limelight. She could admit to feeling slightly grimy wearing a pre-war cocktail dress with a splooge stain on it. But she didn't rely on her good looks to shoo people away, her personality did that enough for her.

When she was done, she checked herself in the mirror. _What a perfect, grimy reenactment of a pampered, pre-war urbanite_. She smoothed the light strands of hair falling down her back, satisfied with the reenactment of pre-war glamor. That is what the people of New Vegas were doing, was it not? They were all attempting to recreate that same glamor that died centuries ago, pretending they were anything like those brats, even though they carried countless tragedies underneath their belts - tribal warfare, enslavement, prostitution, jet addiction, you name it. It wasn't like those things didn't also happen to the pre-war Americans though, minus the jet addiction, replace that with cocaine, or whatever extinct plant-based drug existed back then.

_History is the same events occurring over and over on a loop, every interconnected loop unique only in its color, not its loopyness._

With her Pip-Boy strapped back onto her right wrist, she was ready for the show. She nearly walked into the elevator, when she remembered that she forgot her silenced gun. She'd learned that they gave a nice, _thorough_ pat down for weapons within the numerous hotels and casinos in Vegas. Her solution to that was to strap the gun to her inner thigh, that way, if any Chairman got close to touching it, she could call him a sexual predator and immediately gain entry to the Tops without ever getting searched again, because everybody knew sexual assault was bad for business.

Outside was bustling more than it was earlier when she walked through here in her beeline to speak with House. Twilight was falling, the night sky breathing new and rejuvenating life into this chaotic city of dreamers and schemers, movers and shakers, and all the like. The city looked the most alive during the evening, she thought. Her eyes darted around her, taking in the many crowds of NCR troopers, gamblers, and peddlers. Some of the troopers catcalled her, and she was compelled to flash a winning smile their way before turning her eyes forward, maintaining the illusion that she was focused when she was anything but. One of the male hookers swaggered up to her, his olive skin sweating in sync with the gyrating, jutting movement of his hips. His dark hair was long and styled, his androgyny owing to the lines of coal surrounding his eyes, which looked suspiciously drugged. A short, leather dress clung tightly to his muscled physique, and for a moment she was reminded of something, she just didn't know what.

"Hey, hey, honey baby. You interested in walking on the wild side of town?" His voice was pitched highly, as if he were attempting to sound more feminine. The state of this hooker reminded her of that one Greek myth she'd read about Hermaphroditus, the patron of hermaphrodites.

"I'm more into shuffling, baby. You know that shuffle that people with brain damage have?" She asked, her tongue darting out to wet her lower lip in a mockery of seduction. "That shuffle. But I've been looking for a partner-in-brain injury, maybe I'll look you up when I come back around. How's that sound?"

"I can be whatever you want me to be, _wherever_ , _whenever_ , baby. Come to Gomorrah, the place where even the wrath of God can't break."

"Stay wild, baby." Eris said cheekily.

The hooker turned around, swaying his hips and now searching for another customer to swindle. The scene would've been humorous save for that look he had in his eyes - desperation, sadness, and hopelessness. That seemed to be the holy trinity of emotions here in the Mojave. It was a damn shame, really, but there was plenty of opportunity to turn their lives around. So she didn't exactly sympathize. Sympathy would imply they weren't grown adults capable of choice, and that was even crueler than apathy - robbing people of their individuality.

The next set of dull orange doors opened to yet another area of neon lights, made more apparent by the dark sky. The lights on the Strip were so bright and flashing that most of the stars were no longer visible. This area looked cleaner than the last, but the streets smelled of cash, the paper kind that the NCR printed. Cash, sweat, and tears, the smell was reminiscent of that, and a good summary of what this city looked like, where people lost their fortunes in less than a blink of an eye. It was beautiful to Eris, though she could see where a naturalist would disagree. She, however, loved the sounds, the smells, and the sights of urban life. Only a flash of it was revealed to her in her few days in Freeside, but this was the real deal.

A bright sign with multiple colors - red, yellow, and blue revealed where the Tops was, not that she needed anymore indications - the large complex had signs everywhere telling everyone exactly what its name was. A black strip circled around the entirety of the front of the building, the neon colors flashing in a cycle interchangeably between yellow and red. Groups of troopers stumbled out, one of them so incapacitated that their cigarette was hanging filter side up in their mouth. The men supported each other by their shoulders, stumbling past her without so much of a look in her direction. Perhaps she wouldn't be such a novelty in Vegas, which meant she needed to stand out even more than she already did with her Pip-Boy and exotically blonde hair.

One of the male troopers veered closer to her, his hazy, cloudy eyes looking down at her sinfully. One of the gamblers, who was a woman, caught him and slapped him in the face, for what she assumed was jealousy, if the looks the woman was directing at Eris were any indication. Eris only winked, though, and moved closer to the entrance. Taking a deep breath and collecting all the nerve she had, she prepared herself for the inevitable confrontation she'd have with Benny. A tiny, minuscule, sliver of self-doubt lingered in the back of her mind, which was rare. Benny must've been a special fellow indeed, if he could inspire this kind of alien emotion in her. Focusing on the action of the present, she walked forward, a stream of wind meeting her face and blowing her hair as she entered the air conditioned Tops. She couldn't remember ever being in a place with air conditioning, but she couldn't remember much either way.

Inside, the floor was covered in carpet reminiscent of a bygone era. The lights were dim, dim enough to be cheesy but not tacky. Jazz hits chimed from the speakers which were strategically positioned in the uppermost corners of the large, open area. The front desk was inhabited by men wearing pinstripe suits, oozing 'sex appeal' with that made-up dialect Benny had used when she was in the ground. It was all 'fink' this, 'ring-a-ding' that. She liked it actually, she might just use the ring-a-ding for herself, but she wasn't sure what a fink was.

"Hey hey, dollface, welcome to the Tops hotel and casino! I'm going to have to ask you to hand over any weapons you might be carrying. Don't worry, baby, any weapons you're carrying will be as safe as kittens till you're ready to leave." The greeter said to her, his accent artificial but welcoming nonetheless. "Oh, and a friendly word of advice: if you happen to 'stumble across' a piece during your stay here, just don't wear it openly, you dig?" He added.

"I dig. I'm a pacifist by nature, you see. I don't carry weapons, goes against everything I believe in, _dig_?" The greeter's lips curled up in the corners, as if to humor her.

He came closer, patting her arms and legs, but it didn't seem like he was too keen to find a weapon. Looked keen on finding something else, something she wasn't offering to a boring hunk of meat like this man. His hands trailed up her hips, using his search as an excuse to feel up on her. He must love his job.

"Looks like you were telling the truth, baby. Not that I ever doubted a dame like you." He said, winking. Were all the Chairmen taught by House to be cheesy playboys? She sure hoped so - this was going to get really interesting. "Now that we got that business outta the way, what can I do to make your Tops experience the tops?"

"First question, then I have another. I can be pretty high maintenance, you dig?" Already, she was using some of their colloquialisms. It was easy to pretend to fit in, the price to pay was not actually belonging anywhere, though. "First, what the hell is a fink?"

The greeter chuckled but indulged her question indirectly, as if he didn't know what a fink really was either, "A fink's a.. y'know, a fink. A rascal, or a snitch."

"I dig it, baby!" She shifted her expression into a semblance of something darker and more serious, "Now, I need to know where Swank is. If you'd kindly."

"'Course, doll. Swank's right there, ready and willing to make your experience here the tops!" The greeter answered, pointing towards a generically handsome man standing at the front desk with his arms crossed over the surface, speaking to the other Chairmen at his side.

"Thank you, you're a good man." It sounded right to say it, but it was plastic nonetheless and felt like bile in her mouth.

The man whom she was told was Swank gazed up at her approach, his eyes gliding over her figure. She crossed her arms when she reached him, and in an attempt to quell the nerves rising in the center of her chest, took a cigarette from the case on the desk stacked for guests.

"Need a lighter, sweet pea?" The man named Swank asked, his tan hand darting towards his suit pocket.

"If it isn't too much trouble. It's a damn tragedy that the makers of this dress didn't add pockets." She said. He leaned over, flip lighter in hand, and the flame flicked to life, licking at the end of her cigarette, the smoke entering her lungs, a feeling she now associated with calm. "Thank you, Swank."

"Do we know each other, doll?" His eyes squinted ever so slightly, a flicker of suspicion rising in his dark eyes.

"You saying you'd forget me even if you knew me?" She deflected.

"Face like that, I don't think I could forget anytime soon." He said, his teeth revealed, now scraping over his lower lip. His eyes searched hers, and a dimple she would've believed was adorable during any other time appeared next to the corner of his mouth. "Is there something I can do for you, sweetheart?"

"There's something you need to know about Benny, Swank." She said. The warmth on his face dropped slightly, the missing warmth steadily being replaced with a look of distrust and defensiveness.

"Oh really? You got something to say about the big boss, huh? Well, why don't you say something to his face instead of yapping at me?"

Alright, now the performance was on. Crowds of people in the casino area were yelling - most in defeat, though a couple were victorious. It served her purposes well enough, everyone was too busy being distracted by the festivities to notice the shift conversation she was having with Swank. Hopefully Benny's case was similar. Eris looked to the casino area again, craning her neck to get a peek of a checkered coat. He was standing there, up on the dais, talking and laughing with two women, one of whom was rubbing up and down on his arm with one dark hand.

"Yeah, that's where our metaphorical wagon hits a hitch in the road. Benny's been making his own plays, unbeknownst to you." She said.

"What are you talking about?" The man's face twisted up in confusion at the vague accusation.

"What? You don't remember, say, about a month ago, Benny up and left for a few days? During that time, he got chummy with some Great Khans, shot me in the head, and stole House's chip I was supposed to deliver." She cut the false pretenses and decided being blunt would be the best method here. Her hand went to her forehead, brushing the light strands away from her temple and revealing the gunshot. "Looks good, doesn't it? Makes me look like the queen of gunslingers, or brain damage patients."

Swank's brows furrowed, but doubt remained. "That doesn't.." He started, "That don't make no sense, why would he pull a stunt like that?"

"The unquenchable ambition of man explains much of the world's mysteries.." She waxed, but continued, providing him with something more tangible. "The doctor who sewed me up said it was probably made to look like an accident. People get shot and robbed out here everyday, you know."

"So he's trying to pull a fast one on the big man? Crazy bastard.."

"Yeah.." She nodded, and was pleased when she saw that the doubt was quickly being replaced with indignation.

"Jesus, doll, I think we got a real problem on our hands. Can't believe Benny's a no-good stinkin' punk. Trying to play House like that after everything the big man's done for us.." He sighed audibly, stress evident on his generic features. "Tell you what. Benny won't be a problem for you while you're here. If I get a flash of him going up to his suite, I'll call him over. If you need a piece, you're clear to bring one in, and you can tell the boys it was Swank who said you could. And baby, if there's anything I can do for you, you let me know. This is still the Tops, and it would be my pleasure to make your experience the best while you're here. Dig?"

"Thank you, Swank. The Chairmen will be in good hands with you as their head." His eyes widened at the threat to Benny's rule.

She left Swank behind, stepping into the dim light of the casino area. Benny was still preocuppied with the ladies, so that allowed her some time to formulate something, anything. So in the few minutes she had before she would need to confront him, she found the bar and ordered a glass of rum mixed with cola. It burned going down her throat. Had her life always been similar to a telling of a western crime?

Beside her sat a man in a dapper, light gray suit, a matching fedora resting above his pale face and covering the blond hair underneath. His hair was lighter than hers, even. He was competition for novelty, it seemed. Maybe those troopers outside neglected her for this stud. His cheekbones were high, and he looked young. If she had to guess, he was only a couple years older than her - barely in his twenties. Frosty eyes coolly regarded the wall of spirits in front of them, and he must have felt her eyes on him. For some inexplicable reason, she couldn't look away, even when he challenged her gaze with his own. He seemed oddly familiar.

She didn't dare admit defeat in the form of surprise, so she raised a quizzical brow in return to his searching gaze.

"Can I help you, miss?" His voice was cold, though unlike House's, there was a bare hint of malice in it. Malice at her, or malice at something else entirely. She did recognize it though, but from where?

"See, that depends on the manner of your character. Do I know you from somewhere?" She asked, craning her head to the side in curiosity.

"If you did, you'd certainly remember." That sounded like a line she'd use. Immediately, she was reminded of a wolf. No, a coyote. But why? He must've been predatory to garner that sort of thought from her. Robotically, he extended his hand, as if he were someone who'd just read a manual on how to meet others. "Fox, and you are?"

Now, she'd met some interesting characters in the past month. Benny, House, that conspiracy theorist in Novac, and now this 'mysterious' stranger in the Tops. Anyone who stood out from the crowd caught her attention. Looking at a crowd and finding the token freak was something that came naturally to her. Maybe she led a circus in her former life?

"Eris. You got a lighter, Fox?"

His answer lay in the palm of his hand, which had reached into his suit pocket as mechanically as it had shook her hand. The man lifted his hand up to the stick hanging out of her lips, supported by her thin fingers. His skin was paler than any she'd seen thus far, far paler than her own, which was tanned slightly from all those days spent out in the desert. She took a drag, exhaling the smoke away from the young man's face, taking a gulp from her drink. Her eyes drifted from the top of his head to his feet analytically. She knew him, she was sure of it. The way he carried himself implied he didn't want to be bothered, like he was hiding something. When she got a whiff of mystery, her nose followed the trail, like those hounds Sunny had back in Goodsprings. One day, she'd be able to get away from using that podunk town as a point of reference.

_Don't worry. I won't have you lashed to the cross like the rest of these degenerates_. It then dawned on her that the man sitting next to her, who was coldly polite and mechanical in nearly all his actions, was the same man she'd seen back in Nipton a few weeks before. _Fox_ , _vulpine_ , _Vulpes_. _Clever_ , if you hadn't read at least some Virgil and didn't know at least some Latin roots. Or, if you weren't a three year-old.

"Is there a problem, miss?" His light tone was forced, and if she wasn't so observant she would've found him charming.

"You. ' _Don't worry. I won't have you lashed to the cross like the rest of these degenerates_ '." She quoted, a throaty laugh sounding from the back of her throat as she watched the polite facade drop from his face and make way for something that looked like a predator searching for a point of exit.

He collected himself quickly, however. She could give him that much, she supposed. As soon as the metaphorical glass busted, it was glued back together. But as it was with glass, it wasn't as pristine as it was before.

"Your perception is impressive. That is, for one of the dissolute. With your kind, it usually only takes small actions of validation to distract you from the cold, cold truth lying in front of you. I must admit you have caught me in quite the predicament, but as neither of us wants to cause chaos in this _fine_ establishment, I do hope you will keep my secret. As I'm sure you know, the Legion's retribution is swift, and when it is in my hands, it is crafty like the hands' namesake."

She smiled then, matching the wolfish grin he now had. She didn't have plans to expose Vulpes, the frumentarii whose cruelty she was fully aware of. Those crosses had reminded her of some distant memories - memories of knowledge she had of crucifixion after all, books she'd read about the Romans. When you had proper knowledge of what the Legion was inspired by, it was almost painfully difficult to take them seriously without envisioning Roman decadence and degeneracy - the exact opposite of the Legion's standards.

" _Don't worry_. Your secret is safe with me, 'safe as kittens', as our hosts would say. Go ahead, do your _noble_ work. Another time, I hope?"

"Likely very soon." Was his reply.

She shook her head, the smile never leaving her lips. She was finding it easy to fall in love with Vegas, and she'd only been here for half a day. But having such a broad curiosity for everything under the sun meant there was something to enjoy in nearly everything. Every scenario offered a lesson she could learn from, even if she lost, and for that reason, she didn't believe in defeat, only victory.

Eris left Vulpes behind, making her way to the casino area once again. It was time for the performance of the night. _And, scene!_ Benny was still surrounded by the same women, only now he was speaking amiably with some of his bodyguards. It was obvious to her that he was a big hit with the ladies, and it wasn't hard to see why. Where he was lacking in bulk and height, he made up for in an agile form, and a charm which seemed unique to his tribe. He had a winning smile, his eyes twinkled, focusing on one person at a time, beguiling those around him into thinking they were important, wanted guests. He even laid his hand on the shoulders of the men he spoke with, asserting dominance in ways only a seasoned observer of human behavioral patterns would notice.

The women around him laughed, and the men accompanying him rushed to light the cigarette that rested between his teeth. She rolled her eyes at the laughable scene of men so in dire need for validation from an authority, that they'd kneel at his beck and call like that. Well, Eris would probably do some questionable things to sate her curiosity, but she'd yet to lower herself like that.

A hand swept her hair back, fluffing it and rearranging it, before moving forward. The heels of her stilettos were barely audible among the crowd of people in her surroundings. Regardless, she blazed forward, the gamblers and attendants moving away to clear room for her, reminding her of Moses parting the Red Sea.

Normally, in situations which caused most others stress or anxiety, she waved the feeling away. She was adaptive like that, truly a social chameleon in every sense of the word. But now, her heart skipped a few beats in its journey to pump blood through her veins. Was she scared of Benny? Unlikely. It was a feeling she was unfamiliar with, participatory memories there or not. A feeling came over her which dampened her spirits only minutely - that this was much larger than a delivery contract. But it was just a feeling, but even feelings could become reality, and this feeling was intense.

Finally, the man in the checkered suit raised his eyes away from his company and toward her, the one who was parting the large crowd in her quest to get to him. She was making literal waves. Finally, the smile creeping up on her face was natural, and not one of false pretenses. The expression on Benny's face stilled immediately, the charming smile melting like an ice cube in the Mojave heat. The hands wrapped around the shoulders of the women coolly pushed them away, but not before whispering something in their ears, then whispering something to the bodyguards behind him.

She didn't stop until she was directly in front of him. So close that she could smell the stale cologne he used. _Oh yeah, I'm sure that scent is a big hit with the ladies_ , she thought. _Two hundred years ago_ , she snidely added in her inner dialogue.

"What in the goddamn...?" His question was booming, as if he'd forgotten to lower his voice before saying anything, as if he'd forgotten for a moment that he wasn't the most popular guy in town. His voice was lower, gentler now. "Let's keep this in the groove, hey? Smooth moves.. like smooth little babies.."

"Except babies these days aren't that smooth, Ben-man. A lot of the time they're born deformed, scaly, or retarded in some kind of way. I wonder, were you one of those babies, Benny? Wonder which gene effects poor marksmanship? 'Cause you got the mutation, baby. Can't even shoot a girl lying prone in the cold, hard ground. What does that say about you?"

"I know, I know.. there's always room for improvement. Plenty of room for the both of us. I got a lot of explaining to do for you, baby. What say you and me cash out and move somewheres a bit more private-like? Any questions you got, baby, I'll answer 'em."

It was a shame he was such a charming piece of ass, because she knew she couldn't let him leave this place alive. What a waste.

"No bodyguards, no security. I swear I'm clean, the greeter felt me up enough earlier."

"Tell you what, I owe you that much. I'll walk you up to my suite, and I'll give you the whole, dirty lowdown." He looked to his bodyguards, and made a motion with his gestures so as to let them know not to follow.

And so they walked side-by-side, as if they'd known each other for years. As a last show of dominance, she placed her hand over Benny's bicep, squeezing it playfully, giving everyone a show that they were lovers, and not nemeses. She laid it on thicker, leaning her face into Benny's suit jacket. Where he lacked in foresight, he more than made up for in cunning, for he immediately knew what she was doing, and played along accordingly.

He whispered in her ear like a lover, though it was mostly him saying, "I regret shooting you in the head, baby. You put on a good show." "Never hurts to have a broad hanging on your arm." The absurd contrast of the scene wasn't lost on her. The women from earlier stared at her maliciously, jealous that their fragile, feminine need to be validated by the alpha of the pack wouldn't be fulfilled tonight. In fact, they were fortunate they couldn't join Benny, for he was very soon to be a little puddle of Benny goo on the floor. It was just business, though. She didn't fancy murder, and if it could end any other way (and she could brainstorm a multitude of ways), she'd gladly submit to the other endings.

They disentangled themselves from each other when they finally stepped onto the elevator. It was times like this: standing in the elevator, cheesy, generic jazz tunes sounding above her, directly adjacent to the man who shot her in the head and nearly killed her, that she could almost believe the universe had a sense of humor, or at least a flare for the ironical. She thought back to her thought process from before, that everyone had similarly unique lives that they all believe were unique to them and only them. But was that really true? Because she doubted this kind of circumstance happened regularly for anyone.

The elevator dinged, and Benny smirked nervously and looked over to her. His head tilted towards one of the closed doors, finally catching her attention after she was lost in thought. His eyes never matched his expressions, she had observed. He was a predator hiding in plain sight, much like Vulpes down at the bar was. Men like him were attractive due to the confusion women got in the civilized world - they confused violent criminals with hunters capable of keeping the home and their children secure.

They were shoulder to shoulder walking to his suite. A silent competition was occurring between them, neither of them wanting to follow the other.

His suite was a bit dingy for the finery she'd seen in the establishment. Various items were strewn about in a disorganized fashion, from dresses to suits. Benny sat down casually at the bar, and began talking to her about what he called 'their little mishap in Goodsprings'. There were a few bits about the chip, but most of it was clever deflections away from that sore topic.

This image of him was fitting - his tie a bit crooked, dimples engraved in his chin and cheeks, his face simultaneously serpentine and cherubim. All those promises he was making about this venture of his being profitable for the two of them, like they were a collective, trying to make her feel like she was part of his schemes. But unlike when House did it, she knew that this was on a lark. She couldn't help noticing some similarities between she and Benny, besides the obvious difference, that being him having something dangling between his legs. He was quick, sharp, lacking in book smarts but making up for it with craftiness. But he was much more about the moment, while she was more interested in the possibilities.

She slid in closer to him, in a move she would later deem a spur of the moment. Her eyes locked with his, one liar to another. Her hand found his checkered thigh, and while her hands were practiced, she had no prior memory of attempted seduction. But she was a dramatist, and this would end the way it began - with his hands around a woman. Fittingly prophetic, she thought.

He quirked an eyebrow, his eyeballs widening and darting between her hand and her face incredulously. "Whatcha doing there, honey? You don't want to start something you can't finish. I'm out of your league."

"Is that a challenge, baby? I dig you, and I know you can dig me. I can make you dig me." The actual meaning of her last statement was much darker than he probably knew, and she found enjoyment in their play.

"When I hear you say dig, all I can think of is a shovel. What you're starting right now, it ain't forgiveness, but something wrong. Did those bullets scramble your egg, or have you always been a crazy broad?" He asked, but she could tell there was a note of excitement rising in his voice and in his eyes. _Men_..

"I know.. I'm a crazy bitch, but every bitch needs a master, right?" The words immediately caused a cringe in the back of her mind, but she refrained in the face of this objective. It was better for a man to die thinking he'd get some action than staring down at the barrel of a gun knowing he was about to meet the master of fate.

"If you say so.." He leaned back, providing her with an opening to touch him. He parted his legs, and she watched the strain in his pants begin to form as he watched her apparently hungry eyes. He was studying her with intense interest and curiosity, as if he didn't believe his eyes.

Leaving the stool she'd taken beside him, she moved closer, in between his legs. Her hand found the covered bulge in his pants then, and he sighed as she palmed it, a voice sounded, "Ring-a-ding-ding, baby.." and the absurdity of it all made her want to laugh like a madwoman, which she very well might be after doing this. But keeping with appearances, she merely giggled, as if she were like any other girl who followed the handsome head of the Chairmen to his suite on the thirteenth floor.

She leaned in to meet her lips with his, the smacking of their lips and his stifled groans the only sound in the otherwise silent room. She wanted him to believe she was truly insane, so she drew her tongue back and licked him from his chin to his nose, letting her teeth snag him when she got to the holes of his nostrils.

"You're fucking crazy, but I like it, baby. I do. It suits you.." He growled.

The hand palming him slipped to his hand instead, and in the short moment it took to get his hand between her legs, she reached for the silenced gun strapped to her thigh. The universe was in a forgiving mood, for there was no usual clank of metal like with most handguns. His fingers found their way under her cocktail dress, stroking the steadily growing warmth that was pooling there. Her hips moved with the slow movements, her lips never leaving his. She began making sounds then, low enough to not be wanton or plastic, but high enough to mask the sound of her taking the safety off of the gun.

She raised it to his head, and he was too deep, too lost in the sensations, that he hadn't even noticed it. She let his fingers find their way inside of her, let him find his place of peace, and finally, she pulled the trigger. There was barely any sound, except for a low splatter of blood hitting the bar counter. The fingers inside of her were limp, where only moments ago they were flush with life. She dug into his suit pocket, and _ring-a-ding-ding_ , there was her, or House's, prize.

A feeling of remorse washed over her then, but it was fleeting and she knew it wasn't justified. There was never any animosity there - they were merely victims of chance, and she turned out to be the luckier of the two.

"I am three kinds of fucked up for getting off to that." She said, mostly to herself, staring at Benny's lifeless body, still warm, his features still frozen in desire.


	3. Part I, Chapter III: You're So Vain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So, things just got real in the end of the last chapter. I'm aware the femme fatale trope is quite common in this fandom, but bear with me here. This event will become very important for character development later on. This chapter will be the first where I introduce a different perspective. The first half will be told from Eris' perspective, while the second half will be told from Mr. House's. This is to clear any confusion you, the reader, might have, when I suddenly start referring to 'he'.
> 
> Eris has a few flaws - one among many that should be emphasized is her vanity. She cares a little too much about the performance and how she's received by the crowd.

_You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht_

_Your hat strategically dipped below one eye_

_Your scarf, it was apricot_

_You had one eye in the mirror as you watched yourself Gavotte_

_And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner, and_

_You're so vain, you probably think this song is about you._

_-"You're So Vain", by Carly Simon_

* * *

Life was inherently futile and meaningless. Meaning could only be breathed into it by a man and his will to prove himself to the universe. The performance, the legacy, mattered above all things. The universe was by no means forgiving to those brave few who wanted to make a name for themselves, which was why the greatest among humanity were those who came from nothing, and fought their way to the upper echelons. The trees with the largest canopies started as nothing but a small seed, a testament to the mercilessness of the universe. A tree that believes in the vision it inherited from nature will strive for the sun and nothing more - it is unaware that there are other, alternative methods of reaching the sun. Furthermore, does it even have to face the sun to begin with? That was the problem with believing in universal truths.

Or so nihilists said.

If she'd known killing Benny would have her contemplating universal truths in his empty, slouchy bed, maybe she would've let him flee like he inevitably would've. It was a wonder she'd been able to sleep at all, with the knowledge that he was currently lying facedown in a puddle of his own blood in the bar area. She'd gone to sleep after the deed was done, and discovering that atrocity of a robot, Yes Man. It crossed her mind several times if she should use him for her own purposes, but there were still cards to be dealt to her, and she wasn't about to make a move this early in the game. Plus, her word wasn't _that_ flexible. She did have a contract to fulfill, and she didn't plan on going back on her word anytime soon. It was time to bring the chip to the one who could use it.

Her hands smoothed the cocktail dress she'd slept in, the wrinkles apparent, but at least there was no blood on it. Not that it would show, since she strategically chose a red dress. Yeah, it was strategy, not vanity. She unwound the checkered coat still over Benny's shoulders and checked for bloodstains, and fortunately, there were none to be found. It was a clean kill, quick and painless. In one last sentimental gesture, she placed a kiss on Benny's cheek, not daring to look behind her while her nerve was rejuvenated by the nap she just had. Then, donning the checkered coat which fell to her upper thighs, she walked out of the suite, Platinum Chip planted firmly in the suit's pocket. Reaching into the side pocket of the suit, she felt a gun poking out. This must've been his. She'd check it out later.

Blonde hair was blown by the air vents above as she swaggered down the hall to the elevator. She must've been a vision right about now. Her finger poked at the 'down' button on the elevator, and she stepped in, this time, alone and Benny-less. So, so much could change in the course of mere minutes. Millions of different reactions varying in magnitude all originated in one, tiny action.

The crowds of the Tops were still there, so she must've been out for only a few hours, maybe 3 or 4. She wasn't counting when she was in the heat of the moment. Her descent into the crowded room went unnoticed at first, but soon every eye was on her, and she basked in it. They were totally unaware that something big just happened, but they'd find out soon. One corner of her lip curled upwards at the knowledge that she'd just gotten rid of one of the players in this game, which Benny had revealed was larger than she originally thought. This chip was a super weapon of some sort, or it had some kind of part in it. If it didn't, then there was no way both House and Benny would have figuratively, and in Benny's case, literally, gallivanted across the Mojave to get it. According to Benny, this chip would provide some kind of edge in the war effort, with its owner being the 'third position', as it were, in the war between the NCR and the Legion.

But she had no interest in going down the path that Benny had formulated. She didn't want it for herself. Up until now, her role had and will likely always be as an agent of chaos, not as someone ushering in a future for the masses. She very much preferred challenging those leaders instead.

Swank eyeballed her as she swept by him, looking to the coat and then to her. His jaw was slack, and it must've been a first time for the man who was seemingly all charm.

"Congratulations. You are formally made head of the Chairmen by Eris herself, deliverer of Platinum Chips and conqueror of 86.. or was it 87? 87 tribes!" She announced, taking pleasure in the shocked looks the Chairmen were sharing with one another.

She left before Swank could form a reply, making her way back to the Lucky 38. Hopefully, she would be interrupting House's beauty sleep, _if_ he even slept at all. The sounds of life outside were almost overwhelming in her still-lingering high, but she pushed through the stumbling drunks and swindling hookers on the street. She ignored Victor's greeting on her way in, and pulled open the doors to the sleeping casino.

It was too quiet here, it just didn't fit the effect she was trying to pull off. She needed crowds, needed admirers, there weren't any here, save for the securitrons placed around the complex. It felt like the longest elevator ride in the history of ever, which was long indeed, because she'd seen some ruins of what were once even taller buildings than this one. She repositioned the suit jacket around her, pulling the collar up slightly, before stepping out of the elevator and into the penthouse.

House was waiting for her, there wasn't even a 'connection lost' appearing on his screen. That meant he'd watched her performance at the Tops, and the subsequent finale. She imagined him on the edge of his seat somewhere in the Lucky 38, counting the seconds before she walked through his doors. She wondered if the digital image of him could move with his real expressions, or if it was static. If she was going to have to stare at it every time she reported something, the least he could do was be a little serendipitous, right?

"So, Benny has been 'dealt' with. I take it you've come to deliver the Platinum Chip?" His tone didn't betray the excitement she was sure he felt.

Where was she going to deliver it, though? She looked around, seeing no hands where she could place the tiny chip. So she took the chip out of Benny's suit pocket, and placed it on the uppermost terminal her arm could reach. That way, when the Securitrons came to collect it, they'd have to struggle. It was a win-win for her.

"Such a small thing, isn't it? And yet so.. capacious. So very dear." His voice was now a loving caress, how she imagined an herbalist would talk to their prized plant. "Decades of hiring salvagers out west to search for this little relic in the ruins of a place called Sunnyvale. Back then, anyway.."

Now that she brought the chip to him, maybe he'd start talking about what the chip actually did. But as it were, a strange feeling surfaced in her person at the sound of his cascading, almost _loving_ voice, as he talked about the Platinum Chip. She wondered if she'd ever be able to replicate that same passion in her own life, but she hadn't gotten the chance to yet. It still surprised her how obsessed people became with anything, for she couldn't focus on something for longer than a few hours, let alone two centuries. Surely, his drive was the only reason he was still alive and in possession of his sanity. She'd intuitively understood that having some kind of goal was the only distraction from a full-tilt drive through Loonville.

"Sunnyvale is where the chip was printed, on October 22, 2077. It was to have been hand-delivered to me here, at the Lucky 38, the next day. But the bombs fell first. Suffice it to say, the delivery was never made."

She had a feeling it wasn't going to end here. There were too many possibilities, too many directions this one action led to for this to be the end of their deal.

"So.. what happens next, House?" She asked, looking down at her shoes in a coy gesture she knew he'd see right through.

"A great deal shall be happening - a cascade of events, with you taking a central role." At that, her eyebrows rose to her forehead at the sheer audacity of her employer. "At the moment, however, all you need to do is take the elevator down to the bottom level. What you see there will help you understand the significance of what you accomplished tonight."

"First things first, let's get this out of the way. Are you paying close, close attention, House?" She asked, seriousness seeping through her voice.

"You have my full attention, Miss Eris. For now." He answered, probably under the impression she was going to deliver some conditions or ultimatums to him.

"What do you think of my new look? This year's couture, feast your eyes before it's gone." She said, flexing the coat arms and airing the opening in a display of masculine suaveness.

"It's tasteless and it lacks any semblance of class whatsoever." She laughed at his snarky reply, it was the sort of thing she was beginning to expect from him. So, he considered himself an expert on style, did he?

"That's all you've got to say? Really?" She asked in mock incredulity.

"I'd nearly forgotten you were of the opposite sex. Were you looking for some kind of vain gratification for your figure? Or, better yet, were you looking to fulfill some kind of primitive superiority complex, and hoping that I'd acknowledge your revenge against Benny? Unfortunately for you, I don't care for vengeance. Progress is all that interests me. Sorry to deny you a moment of primate triumph, but you'll have to go elsewhere to sound your barbaric yawp." She laughed at that, knowing that this partnership was going to be so incredibly fun if he kept sweet talking her like that.

"No, and _no_. Consider the following - you are incredibly easy to irritate and maybe I find some sick pleasure in pushing your buttons. Bet you didn't predict that."

"If you're done wasting my time, I would give you access to the basement. Now, go." This time, the irritation oozed out of his voice, there was no hiding it.

Pissing off Mr. House was quickly becoming her new favorite pastime out here. If she couldn't compete with him, then the least she could do was snark him until he was forced to either play along or surrender. One day, she'd tell him a joke, and he'd laugh. Maybe not soon, since nothing in the universe was exactly fixed and certain, but it was possible. More than that, though, he had vast knowledge of the pre-war world, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't curious, even though she normally had no problem with lying. If she could poke those buttons, which would lead to even more buttons, she could get some engaging discussions from him.

So she conceded to his wishes, knowing their recent discussion couldn't go anywhere seeing as he was so goddamn strict, and took the elevator down to the basement. It appeared to look like one of those old parking garages where pre-war people left their cars, which seemed utterly barbaric to Eris, considering any clown could come along and break into them. Only in this 'parking garage', there weren't any metallic skeletons of cars like there were out in the wastes, it was instead a bunch of active securitrons. Targets were lined up in the distance below, and the little machines aimed their energy weapons in the center.

"Step closer to the demonstration area, if you would." House's voice boomed, distracting her from her train of thought. All traces of irritation from their previous discussion had left, now, he was all-business. "I expect you're well familiar with my securitrons by now. The titanium alloy housing its frame protects its electronic core, deflecting all ballistic attacks. Its X-38 Gatling laser is deadly against soft targets at medium range. And for close range suppression or crowd control, the securitron is armed with a 9mm submachine gun. All of this, you probably already knew. What you did not know, is that these are its secondary weapons."

She wanted so badly to say that _yes_ , she did know, even if that was far from the truth. If there was one thing she hated, it was when others made assumptions about what she did and didn't know.

"All this time, my securitrons have had to get by running the Mk 1 operating system which lacks software drivers for their primary weapons. Today, with the delivery of the Platinum Chip, all that changes. Behold, for the first time, securitrons running the Mk 2 OS. The M-235 missile launcher allows the securitrons to annihilate targets from a significantly longer range. And a rapid fire G-28 ensures the securitron is deadly at closer range."

Utter devastation, is what he meant. Now she knew what Benny meant when he talked about the picture being way larger than a simple delivery upgrade. House was officially the third player in this conflict the Mojave was currently wrapped up in.

He continued on, "The software upgrades also includes drivers for the securitrons highly sophisticated on-board, auto-repair systems. Altogether, the Mk 2 software upgrade confers a 235% increase in combat effectiveness per unit. The city of New Vegas finally has soldiers worthy of protecting her. Return to the penthouse now. We have much to discuss."

After that power display, how could she turn him down? She was definitely intrigued with his plans, especially with how he'd masqueraded as the mere proprietor of a city when he was actually planning something much larger. Sneaky, sneaky. He liked the performance too, he just wouldn't admit it as easily as she would.

"Trips to the basement are rarely so educational, wouldn't you agree?" She'd answer yes, but she had no memory of ever going to a basement, so she said nothing for once. "I've since broadcast the upgrade to every securitron within range of my transmitters, and I must say, it's causing quite a stir down on the Strip!" The last few syllables were spoken in thinly veiled excitement, and she was reminded of a nerd with his science project. It would've been adorable, if said nerd wasn't hiding a scheme to usurp power from someone.

"So, where do you have me going next? I know I'm going somewhere."

"The next step will have you infiltrating Caesar's camp at Fortification Hill."

Wait. _The_ Fort? The base of operations for the Legion? She was sure she could think of some way to get inside, of course, but it would be incredibly risky, not to mention a chance of enslavement. And what exactly did he want her to do there? So many possibilities ran uninhibited in her mind then, was she to kill Caesar, was she to knock the Legion down a few pegs? Up until now, she hadn't quite been 'chummy' with the Legion, but she hadn't made any move to slight them either. They were a rogue variable, possessing an ideology she liked to play with, if only to ruthlessly debate those who couldn't comprehend a woman defending slavers.

But she was not such a devil's advocate that she couldn't admit that the Legion was likely the most dangerous faction within these parts of the wastes. A civilization like that was fully equipped to devour and consume any peoples it came across, robbing them of all their individuality and customs. The enslavement part could be forgiven, for if she was to despise every single slaver in the wastes, her wrath would be directed at about 40% of all known tribes. And besides, the whole world was made up of slaves, what difference did it make to slap a collar on their necks? No, it was too easy to disapprove of the Legion simply because of slavery. Even Jesus understood that slavery was an inevitable reality of the people - just one of many impulses man had to dominate others.

It was actually the Legion's lack of tangible future she poked at. Sure, there were a multitude of roads that Caesar's ideology could lead to, but one thing's certain - the Legion dies without Caesar. She'd met some Legion boys during her time in the Mojave, and while Vulpes seemed clever enough (although that was pushing it, seeing as she'd only met him twice), the others seemed to be mindless servants, incapable of forming thought not directly given to them by their superiors.

"Wait, wait. So, you want me to infiltrate _The Fort_ , and.. what? Kill Caesar? It's not even March yet, it wouldn't feel right."

"Impressive though your blatant display of acknowledging obscure historical fact may be, Caesar is of great use to me, and I don't want you harming a hair on that man's head - assuming you can find one." He said.

Was that a joke? A joke from the stoic and rigid Mr. House? Perhaps he had chutzpah after all. He certainly had snark but she was beginning to doubt if he even had a sense of humor at all, especially considering he hadn't laughed at anything she'd said so far. Normally, it was easy for her to make others laugh, though usually at their expense, or her own.

"So, what's the idea here? What do you want me to do there?" She asked.

"I want you to open a hatch in the basement of the derelict weather station atop Fortification Hill. You'll recognize it on sight. The hatch bears the same logo as the Lucky 38, like the Platinum Chip."

"So I imagine the chip opens the hatch? I know, I know, you don't have to tell me how clever I am." Her answer was a quiet sigh on the other end, but he didn't take the bait this time.

"Right. The hatch will recognize the Platinum Chip, and, 'open sesame'."

"Don't tell me what's inside. I enjoy the anticipation." She said.

"It's something very important, that's all you need to know right now. I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise for you. As curious as you must surely be, judging by the very subtle expression on your face which may as well be saying to the world how excited you are to uncover my secrets, I won't answer any questions concerning it." Involuntarily, her eyes rolled to the back of her head at the man's ego.

There was something more at work here, something more than just him wanting an edge against the NCR and Legion that threatened to steal his home out from under him. Utilitarians like him didn't take action with only one motive in mind - that was a waste of time. So, what exactly had she walked into? What was her place in all of this besides being an errand girl? She cared very little for money, even less, her heart was even more frigid toward authority and structure. So, he gained power, but what did she gain?

As naive as it probably seemed to onlookers, she paid just as much attention to intentions as she did actions. It was the tortured philosopher within, at least, that sounded better than naivete. Intentions belonged to the realm of the mind, and actions, which were tangible, naturally contrasted with them often, and for that purpose, it was small-minded to call an authority hypocritical or corrupt when actions and intentions didn't align.

"What do I gain from all this, House? I'll lay it out for you to save your precious brainpower - I couldn't care less about material gain."

"I wouldn't offer you an incentive as crude as money, though there'll be plenty of that if you continue to succeed. What I'm offering you is a ground-floor opportunity in the most important enterprise on Earth." She quirked her brow skeptically at that. "What I'm offering is a future - for you, and what remains of humanity."

Hmm. That did sound pretty noble, but if she asked Caesar what his plans were, it was likely he'd say something along the same lines. She'd have to pay close attention to the effects of House's plans, instead of simply trusting him by-ear. No one yet had been fortunate, or unfortunate enough, to earn her loyalty. House wouldn't get it just by promising her a future and a suite in the Lucky 38. Despite all evidence to the contrary, she did care about humanity, or the playground it represented.

"Alright." Was her doubtlessly infuriating answer.

"'Alright'?" Came his rhetorical question, a man who took so much pride in finding it easy to sway others with promises of money, luxury, and decadence was probably unused to being 'dismissed', even though that was far from what she was doing.

"Yeah, 'alright'. Every leader has similar intentions, House, no matter how noble they are. What's that useless cliche? Oh yeah.. 'the road to hell is paved with good intentions'. If I asked Caesar what his plans were for humanity, or even Kimball, they'd say something along the lines of ensuring a future for it first and foremost, or something equally vague like that. I'll do as you ask, for now, but I need results too."

"The difference between them and me is that I have no interest in resurrecting decaying structures from the past. Slavery, bureaucracy, and decadence for the sheer purpose of sating human desire. To me, decadence is merely one of many of the fruits of success. A synthesis of old world splendor and an infallible structure that this world has never seen, which belongs to the future and not the past, is what I seek to establish. The Legion and its opposition, the NCR, look to the past for solutions. But the past is gone, the present fleeting. I look only at the future, for what _could_ be, not what _was_."

She wasn't sure how she felt about that, but it was some facet of hopefulness, but she'd need to cover that up, since this path had a myriad of roads that branched out from it, and she didn't want to be surprised if it failed miserably. But that weird hope grew inside of her with his speech, and she wasn't sure how to cope with it. It sounded like a good opening for a debate, though, and that's how she coped when people made sense, and when she was too stubborn to agree.

"How noble of you, for someone who has _resurrected_ old world splendor in this city. It seems you haven't learned from all the mistakes of the past you claim have decayed. Refer to what I said before: if I marched my sorry ass to General Oliver and asked him what his plan was, he'll say all that matters is defeating the Legion, and then what? That isn't a substantial plan, considering a multitude of enemies could pop up after Caesar's defeat. And then, when I ask him the same question, he'd say all that mattered would be defeating this _new_ , shiny enemy right now. And really, the same applies for Caesar. He'd say something similar, only he'd say it in Latin."

Really, she didn't know what else to say, but she was good at talking circles around people. The argument, in reality, had little to no substance considering House hadn't even said his plan was to defeat the two factions, only implying it. He was holding his cards very closely, making criticizing him painfully difficult, though not impossible.

"Precisely. I have never divulged outright how I plan to deal with those threats, because it is irrelevant to the larger picture, which in the end, is the only thing that rightly matters. Those men cling to particulars, and the most grievous flaw in this tactic is that particulars are readily easier to replace than an abstract vision. Regardless, you bring to light a valid point I had ignored when criticizing these two factions. Indeed, their reasoning for conflict is fickle, precisely _because_ it is focused only on the nearest objective, and not the horizon. They fail to see the forest that the trees belong to, in a manner of speaking."

"Happy to be of service." Came her winning reply.

"If that's all, we should return to the matter at hand, and that is how you will get into the Fort without being tied to a cross." He said.

"I know, doesn't it bother you that they say it's crucifixion when in actuality, crucifixion involves being nailed to a cross? I can't live with the discrepancy there."

"The metals used in manufacturing nails are valuable in this age. It is practical to use easily acquired items like rope to tie someone to a cross, rather than waste nails." Of course a business tycoon would say something like that, she could respect his explanation - it was sound. "I have ran the calculations and deemed it a mathematical certainty that within the next two days, an agent of Caesar's will come to you bearing an invitation to the Fort. It is likely that it will be the same agent you spoke with only a few hours ago."

That was a subtle flex by House. So many questions came to the surface with that statement. Did he think she'd betray him and start actively working for Caesar, and be the figurative Judas in his testament? Or was he simply letting her know that he knew the inner workings of the city and the shady characters who inhabited it?

"How do you know about Inculta?" She asked out of honest curiosity.

"There is very little that happens here without my knowing about it. Besides that detail, I am aware that Caesar has several spies throughout the Mojave, four of which are here, in Vegas. I imagine that Caesar is either ignorant, or chooses to ignore - likely a mixture of both - that I lived during a time of cold war between two world superpowers who amassed several programs to infiltrate the others by stealth. It is nothing new to me."

"Duly noted! I'll make sure to drag Inculta to a shady corner in Freeside when we plot your end." She joked.

"Good luck with that." At least he was willing to humor her a bit, even if he was being annoyingly tight-lipped.

And that was her ticket to leave, since he effectively dismissed her, if 'connection lost' was any indication. She had a couple days to lose herself in the debauchery of Vegas, until House's prediction would come true. Before leaving the penthouse, she searched the bookcase nearest to the elevator, and ran her fingers down the spines of the pristine books he had. The books she picked up were usually nearly unrecognizable, or of poor quality and smelt faintly of either urine or booze, which made sense seeing as the two nearly always came hand-in-hand.

He had a lot of books on economics, at least in this bookcase. Economics was boring to her, but so was twiddling her thumbs and doing nothing, which was the alternative. Later, she could go down to the Strip and find some brains to pick, but she was a curious mind first and foremost, and learning always took precedence over play, even though the two needn't necessarily be separated.

She was tired of listening to Mr. New Vegas rattle on about what she'd been doing over the past month, that and the same few songs played all throughout the day. Really, someone should donate some records to him, because while she liked Frank Sinatra, she wasn't too keen on Marty Robbins. Fortunately for her, House had several records she hadn't heard before, in an organized shelf in her suite. There was a record player, but she wasn't sure how to work it. The record player was in the same box it came in, as if it'd never been used, which meant there would be a manual in there. It was a pity people didn't make manuals anymore.

So the record player had two speeds according to the primitive little interface: 33 1/3 RPM and 45 RPM, whatever the hell that meant. Maybe it had something to do with playing different tracks? Referring to the manual, she realized that assumption was right. Step one said to find a flat surface. She took the contents of the nightstand and shoved them to the side. She'd clean it up 'later'. But probably not. ' _Adjust the counterweight on the tonearm to set the tracking weight before plugging in_ ', she'd just hope whatever she was doing was right, because that sounded mundane and it might as well have been in Chinese. She also learned that 12-inch records and 7-inch records played at varying speeds.

Trusting her instincts that she was doing this right, she plugged in the record player into the outlet on the wall. So far, she hadn't been shocked, so that was a good sign. Leaving the coolness of the floor, she went over to the shelf to find a record. She was familiar with some of these artists, but others she wasn't, so she grabbed a record she was unfamiliar with. It was Billie Holiday. The sound of the record was clear, save for some faint distortion which could easily be blamed on her negligence, she'd get it right eventually.

Today, she'd killed Benny (well, technically last night) _and_ learned the intricacies of record players. Eris had gotten so distracted with the machine that she'd nearly forgotten the book she'd grabbed on her way out of the penthouse. The title was _The Spatial and Economic Transformation of Mountain Regions: Landscapes as Commodities_ , which sounded like a real snoozer, but she was working with an economist, and she needed more content if she wanted to pick his brain.

It was boring at first, nearly all introductions are, until the author began talking about European countries, some she'd never heard of. She'd have to consult a geographic text about where Switzerland was. After an hour of absorbing the words, her pace was already quickening as interest began to kick in. She was learning that although mountain regions were isolated and therefore rural, they often were situated on the borders of large cities and rivers, which were centers of tourism and things like hydroelectric power, much like New Vegas.

She made a mental note to ask House what liberal-productivist meant, though. Actually, scratch that - she'd find context clues. He didn't need anymore reason to lord his superior knowledge of trade and industry over her.

* * *

Though he had no excuse to, given that he was no longer ambulatory or 'corporeal', he felt some small amount of spite watching her shuffle through his things. He was possessive about things he deemed to be his, and even his books (which he'd read over several times), counted as such. Besides, he doubted she'd understand the finer points of economic science and trade, even though he was aware she was not as small-minded as the people down on the Strip. Really, he just had a bone to pick with her, so to speak.

She came into _his_ casino, proceeded to lecture him on the virtue of a leader's intentions, and disrespected him at every turn possible. When he hired her originally, he'd been told she was precocious, though not as wily as she turned out to be. He admired no small amount of cunning and cleverness in his employees, which was precisely why he had chosen Benny as a protege in the beginning of this mess, though Benny had turned out to be more trouble than he had calculated. Benny was deceptive in that he seemingly obeyed every order he was given without question, while his newest employee did the opposite, which he supposed was a good indication that if she began to have doubts or regrets over working for him, she'd tell him up front, instead of scheme behind his back.

He put a good deal of faith in those who worked for him. Although he was not one to trust easily, he didn't have the time to question the motives of everyone working under him. He preferred to trust first, then remove them entirely when they proved to be untrustworthy. This had been his practice for as long as he could remember, but this was remedied by the fact that he nearly always planned for the event of their betrayal. Seeing everyone as a potential enemy was useful, and it always remained in the back of his mind during any interaction he had with anyone. He'd miscalculated Benny's penchant for deceit, but all that was made up for by the 'Plan B' he had, which came in the form of his newest employee, who'd already proven far more useful in the past couple days alone than Benny had been in four years.

So he'd watch and he'd waited, like he'd been doing for centuries now. If she proved to be a fruitless endeavor, he'd make sure she ended up where she began - a hole in the ground. But as for her cheek, he could stomach it. He wasn't a Caesar. He came from a time where the right to one's own opinions and individuality was guaranteed by law, and he had no interest in quieting curious minds, as he had been much like her in his youth, only less irritating. Comparing the two of them left a feeling of disgust deep in his gut. Figuratively, of course, since he'd lost most corporeal sensation years ago.

How hard he'd tried to separate himself from other humans in his endeavor to gain the closest thing to immortality. He wasn't like any of them, for he was beyond base impulses like sadism, vanity, and material greed. He was still miffed that the courier had the audacity to compare him to Oliver, and especially Caesar. A large facet of why he believed himself to be a greater potential leader than either of them (but most especially Caesar), was that he was beyond the corrupting desire to dominate others through acts of atrocious cruelty like rape or torture, just to name a couple.

Dictating the lives of others was outside of his interests. What he preferred was ordaining what he believed to be an infallible framework, a vision for them to aspire for. In a manner of speaking, he wanted to reignite the fires of Prometheus, that torch which was delivered to mankind as a symbol of higher learning and awareness of the universe. Before Prometheus had risked his life to deliver the sacred fire of knowledge to mankind, man had been much like it was now - reaping the crops sown by the seeds of stagnancy, tribalism, and primitivity. One push in the right direction would be enough for mankind. With his hand holding the torch, mankind could find purpose once again in a tangible future, which promised refinement in all things.

Exactly four hours after he'd dismissed the courier, she returned to the same bookshelf and placed the book in the wrong space. How infuriating! He had his securitrons organize those books in perfect alphabetical order ages ago, and now she was mucking it all up with her careless bravado. Additionally, he doubted she'd actually read the whole volume. While not a man to make assumptions of people based on something so petty as gender alone, he'd never once met a woman who showed any interest in economic theory. Generally, that was far from their interests. If someone of the opposite sex was in anyway intellectual, they tended toward the fields concerning humans, such as psychology, biology, or biochemistry. If she'd actually read the rather dense volume on the economics of the Alpine countries and absorbed it, he'd be as close as he could to being impressed with her.

"House?" She called out. How difficult was it really for her to add the 'Mr.'? He'd done her the courtesy of referring to her as 'miss'.

He sighed before allowing his digital image to reappear on his primary terminal. He had things to do, after all, this city didn't run itself. Fortunately, though, he could keep an eye on the other cameras throughout the Strip, though he couldn't directly control his securitrons while he was here.

"Was there something you needed to.. bring to my attention?"

"Yes! I just wanted to ask you some questions, is all. Your book collection implies you have extensive knowings of economics. And, well, I'm curious as you probably know already. Interested in answering questions for me?"

"What did you have in mind?" In truth, he would be interested in it. It'd been too long since he was able to talk fluidly with someone about something he was knowledgeable of. Though to say trade was a passion of his would be a stretch, it had always been a means to an end. He preferred the field of robotics above nearly all things.

"I wanted to ask about what the Mojave was like before the bombs. What were the dynamics like?" She asked.

"This is the region I was born in. As long as I could remember, I lived beneath the shadow of Vegas' flashing lights. As you can imagine, Vegas was a blast furnace of productivity, the most profitable industry that the Mojave region had. Las Vegas is what economists refer to as a 'tourist' economy, which means it profits from customers who arrive primarily for pleasure or travel. Outside of Las Vegas, the Mojave was dotted sparsely with rural communities, who were more often than not backwards in lifestyle - a stark contrast to the progressivism and high society that Vegas was. Needless to say, the Mojave region was wealthy only _because_ of Vegas, but such a thing is normal for any tourist economy."

"But surely, the Mojave has _some_ resources which it could've profited off of?" He wasn't sure if she was just trying to be stubbornly contrarian, or if she really did see some other kind of potential in the region. Either way, she didn't know enough about it to question what he was saying.

"Absolutely not. Of course, the rural communities got by through mining and agriculture, but this was relatively insignificant in proportion to the profit Vegas made through offering vice to travelers."

"If it is even relatively significant, then it is certainly significant." She quipped. If he could roll his eyes, he certainly would.

"Enough. Have you come to learn something or have you come to waste my time by being needlessly contrarian?"

"Hold your horses! I have another question."

"I'm sure you do. Ask away, and make this one worth my time, I have no interest in entertaining foolishness." He said.

"Alright, alright. Noted, but disregarded because I think you like talking about money. Don't even try to deny it." She dramatically turned her head and her mouth curled up into a smirk not unlike the one on his screen. Before he could deny it, she spoke up. "What are the pros and cons of a tourist economy?"

"I like to think it takes only an intuitive understanding of how it can be both detrimental _and_ beneficial. Seeing as it produces no palpable capital, it was often disregarded by the narrow minded that inhabited Wall Street, the undisputed economic powerhouse of what used to be America. But that is all well, for I saw potential clearly what they couldn't. While a tourist economy like Vegas produces nothing physical of worth, it is culturally impactful, and psychological profit is as valuable as capital like gold and silver. It provides the people with hope, it stands as a beacon of accomplishment, where the people can flock to, to spend the fruits of their labor on luxury, which encourages them to be more actively productive. In times of turmoil, the advantages of a tourist economy are more apparent than ever. I had never seen Vegas more populated than it was in the years leading up to the Great War. During times of distress, it provides a promise of respite."

"I would've come to the same conclusion, naturally.." She tried to joke.

"Perhaps, though a large part of learning is taking advice from those who know more than you." Was all he offered.

He supposed it was fitting that his current employee would try to educate herself on the intricacy of the world she'd been thrust into. Many others wouldn't seek to understand it, rather they would attempt to evade the mechanics of it in favor of letting it consume them, much like his employees down on the Strip were doing. It was a trait worthy of admiration, he could admit that much.


	4. Part I, Chapter IV: Viva Las Vegas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Not much will be happening in this chapter besides some dialogue-heavy segments and Eris acclimating to her new life as an employee to Mr. House and resident of New Vegas. Things will pick up in the next chapter.

_Bright light city gonna set my soul, gonna get my soul on fire_

_Gotta whole lot of money that's ready to burn, so get those stakes up higher_

_There's a thousand pretty woman waiting out there_

_They're all living the devil-may-care_

_And I'm just a devil with love to spare, so viva Las Vegas_

_-"Viva Las Vegas", by Elvis Presley_

* * *

To gamble was to willingly enter into single combat with fate. All men liked to play at being masters of their own fate, as though they could only become master of it by risking all gains earthly and otherwise. It was about controlling one's destiny. See, all manner of men will ultimately fail in nearly every endeavor in the end, that was how it had been since time immemorial. However, when man _willingly_ gave himself to fate, it validated his ego in a manner of speaking. Everyone knew that men played at humility before walking into a losing battle, and this false humility allowed them to take the defeat with their pride, which had been cleverly hidden underneath, intact.

Eris couldn't remember playing poker since she'd woken up in Goodsprings, but it was as if she knew the rules intuitively, like she'd been a prolific player before the 'incident'. That was what she was calling it now: the incident.

One of the best things about being in Vegas was that no one knew her, save for the romanticized version of the incident. None of them had been around to witness the dirty details, so it was easy to spin fanciful tales of how it happened. There were no looks of pity like she'd received in Goodsprings, only looks of admiration and awe. She loved being underneath their stares. If there was anytime she simultaneously felt both truly herself and also like an actress, it was when she was the center of attention. Because she herself was not an actress, but the actress was herself - paradoxical. It made more sense in the abstract.

She hadn't gone to the other places on the Strip, but she felt that would come sooner rather than later. The gossip floating around in her ears concerning the Omertas and the White Gloves did little to quell her curiosity. Eris felt like she was somewhere she could eventually feel a semblance of belonging - a den of treachery, money-grubbing, and degeneracy. As much as she liked to consider herself someone who belonged in the world of degeneracy and crime, she'd always be more of an intellectual at heart. But some of the greatest 'philosophers' she'd met so far were chem fiends, and she wondered why thinking and fun needed to be separated so often.

"So, _most esteemed leader of the_ _Chairmen_ , tell me about your tribe - you know, where you came from, your culture, all of those things. If you would." She took a hit from her cigarette and turned her neutral gaze to look at Swank over her card hand.

"Baby, when you say it that way, how can I refuse?" He said, his mask cracking for a moment. His poker face left much to be desired, but she supposed not everyone was a natural. "We're only the coolest cats on the Strip." She raised her brow in mock disbelief at that, "We been here longer than those creeps across the road, and those finks at Gomorrah. Beyond that, we got the _swankiest_ digs, caps rollin' in like the tide, and everybody loves us because we show them a simple good time, no strings attached."

"I get that much, but what about before? I'm aware that the big hoss 'domesticated' you, or civilized, rather. Civilized is a more merciful term I think."

Caravan was an alright game, but not ballsy enough for her to really immerse in. But poker was only fun when there were more than two people, and at the present, she only had Swank at her disposal. Swank seemed like a standup guy, a trustworthy character you'd want on your side if push came to shove. It helped, too, that he was a hunk, if not generically so, though still pleasing enough to look at.

"Honor and loyalty were the values upheld by the tribe then, and still is. Benny was a no-good fink for turning us around and making us look like Omertas, for what he did to you and Mr. House. Back then we called ourselves the Boot Riders, dig? I know, I know, not as ring-a-ding as _Chairmen_. We scalped people for giggles, lived mostly as nomads in those days. Benny ain't a good representation of our code of honor, baby. I'll make sure it remains upheld." Then, he mumbled quietly to himself. "Don't know why he would pull a trick like that on House, after everything he's done for us.."

Eris knew why. She liked to think she understood the adversary in every story well enough. Benny was just too impatient, and while impatience is a common trait, impatience and ambition don't swing too well together. He was a clever man, she thought, but a bit too clever and a bit too preoccupied with the pleasures of the present, case in point in that he lost his life thinking he was going to get some ass. Besides that, he seemed like a swell guy. Not a good friend, but a good thinker and a suave frontman. He had the right idea, but poor execution on his part, kind of like Caesar.

On the topic of Caesar, she still hadn't been approached by any of his men yet. She was starting to doubt House's prediction that it was going to happen anytime soon, if at all. He'd assured her that his calculations were nearly always infallible, and while he wasn't a liar (she could tell, he was too tactless for that), it was clear he put a lot of faith in his abilities, which she'd yet to see in action thus far.

She wasn't going to tell _him_ that though. She could practically hear his vessels bursting anytime she sassed off to him, and if he couldn't take that, there was no way he could take criticism of any kind. Right?

"Seems like everyone who _isn't_ Omerta doesn't like that crowd, what do you know about them? Don't worry, I don't kiss and tell." She said, taking another drag from her cigarette.

"Their whole shindig is a den of thieves and liars. I guess a cat could say they make a living off of taking advantage of vulnerable-like people, dig? My advice to you is this - you ever bring that pretty face of yours to Gomorrah, keep a piece on you at all times."

"Noted. How do you feel about going to the Aces Theater? Everybody's saying it's the place to be in here." She suggested.

He wasn't that interesting, really. She could see why House called him unimaginative yet reliable. Sure, she could see all the honies liking a hunk like him, with his dark, obviously tribal looks still lingering, but he wasn't her type. Matter of fact, she didn't know what her type was. A man who was tall, brunette, reasonably intelligent, and a Freudian would do. Also, he needed to hold a conversation about the finer points of sociopolitical dynamics.

"Of course they do. It's 'the Tops'!" A light chuckle escaped her at his boyish charm. He couldn't be older than his mid-twenties, unlike Benny, who seemed to be in his early to mid thirties at the least. So Swank was the baby of the bunch, huh?

The Aces was much like she'd imagined it to be - flooded with guests, mostly couples with their hands all over each other. NCR troopers sat with their flavor-of-the-month, the middle-aged women who were likely married with children, but got bored of their husbands. There was a couple sitting across the room, a pale man and a darker skinned woman.

After a few seconds of analyzing, she realized it was Vulpes yet again. She considered going over to him and chatting him up, but it wasn't like they were close friends. With the amount of brainwashing Caesar inflicted on his subordinates in order to force them into subservience, he'd probably sooner want to strap her to a cross than converse about anything. Although, to his credit, he did use many big words, and while that usually meant next to nothing other than distracting you from how little substance is really being exchanged via words, it was still possible that he was a thinker.

Truly, it was unfair to make broad assumptions of individuals based on their allegiances alone. She wasn't a crony capitalist just because she worked for House, so it was safe to assume that there was a chance that Inculta's personality consisted of only totalitarianism and utilitarianism. An individual was not defined by the collective. Rather, the collective was defined by the individuals fitting into it together like a well-oiled machine. But always, the individual must be separated from the collective when attempting to judge character.

Next to her, Swank laughed at the joke one of the performers was telling on stage. She laughed too, and it was hearty enough to sound real. She quickly gathered that stand-up comedy was not in her large network of interests. It was rehearsed, with little to no spontaneity. It was boring, lacking in substance. Unlike Inculta over there whom she was sure would tell her more about Legion ideals if she asked him. He'd probably be bursting at the seams to tell a willing person about his tribe, because the Legion was really that unpopular. Everyone hated it, no one even gave it a chance, not even to pick and choose some of the surprisingly good things about it.

Not that she could list some good things about it, she only knew the bare minimum about the Legion as it is. They liked to tie (not nail) people to crosses, some of them wore coyote heads, they took slaves, and they worshiped Caesar as a god. What she wanted was the actual framework, the lowdown on all of its ideals, besides being partial copies of a long-dead Eurocentric empire.

Fortunately for her, Inculta caught her gaze and nodded what some would call 'politely' in her direction. She was hoping he'd come over here while she was with Swank, she could probably cause some kind of conflict between the two which could possibly elaborate more on their characters.

Was he here tonight to deliver her the invitation from Caesar? A large part of her was excited to see the Fort firsthand from a free woman's perspective. That, and talking to Caesar sounded fascinating, picking a god-emperor's brain would keep her busy analyzing for awhile.

The show went on though, and she was half-drunk by the time it was over. Swank had told her all her drinks were free, seeing as how she wiped the Chairmen's hands of Benny. She considered it might've been an offering made out of generosity, but a large part of it may have been flirtatious. He'd been giving her the eye all night, but she could easily tell that this was just how he was. Chivalrous, if one could believe it - how odd. The idea of chivalry was completely new to her, seeing as her mouth nearly always incriminated her as capable of providing for herself.

Eris excused herself from Swank, her eyes searching the room for any sign of Inculta. _Robotic movements, albino, clipped voice_. He was speaking shiftily with the pretty dame from earlier, all hushed tones and private-like. She'd give anything to bet that the girl was a 'fink', an informant. The girl swooned over the soft cascading voice of the vulpine man, though, her eyes struck with adoration and desperation. If Eris were more empathetic, she'd be heartbroken at the wanton display of the woman's preoccupation with him.

They parted ways soon after, and Eris sipped on her cocktail while she waited for the sign he'd be coming over. Soon enough, his torso was turning ever so slightly her way, and she knew he'd be coming over. He was a peculiar looking man, although peculiarity wasn't exactly the correct term, and it didn't subtract his roguish charm. He was tall, though not overbearingly so. His fit was agile, the lean muscle underneath revealing the hard life she assumed he lived in the Legion.

"A pleasure to see you, Fox, I'm afraid I left my handbag over there. Care to join me?" She asked. It was a lie, though they both knew that. It was important, though, to keep up appearances in the event of someone overhearing them.

"Not at all, Courier." Came his swift reply.

The theater was now emptying, its drunken guests abandoning it after the nightly shows had run their course. It was just them, Tommy, and the bartender who was clearing the tables of empty bottles and glasses, rendering them spotless (or as close to spotless as a centuries-old table could get) for the next show tomorrow.

"So? I presume you flew over to me, reminiscent of a chirping, albino bird, for a good reason?" She playfully asked, no small amount of lighthearted sass in her tone.

"You have caught the Legion's, or shall I say, Caesar's attention. His eyes see far and wide, and he has taken note of your activities. He extends his Mark to you," He slid a small, flat coin underneath the table, pressing it into her palm, "so that you might journey through his lands unspoiled. He requires your presence at the Fort immediately."

Inculta would be a good poker player, she noted.

"Let's see.." Mockingly, she checked her Pip-Boy, making like she was looking at her schedule, which blissfully, was empty. "Hmm.. I might have time, say, in three weeks? On a wednesday, from 9 am to 6 pm, I'm free."

"This is not something to be taken lightly, Courier. My lord is wise in his mercy _and_ his punishment. You do not want to be on the receiving end of my lord's wrath. You have been given a privilege, especially considering you are a woman, the first free woman to ever see the Fort with her own eyes." He said.

"I was fucking with you." She said, rolling her eyes, but taking the shiny coin nonetheless. " _It's useful that you happened by_. I wondered if you'd be open to answering some questions for me, about the faction you serve."

"What did you wish to know?" He asked. His face remained neutral, though as the eyes were the windows of a man's soul, as the cliche went, his eyes betrayed the interest he felt.

"Tell me about its goals, for starters. Don't worry, I'm as of now, an unbiased observer. I wish to know more about the Legion, from someone who isn't an NCR sympathizer or woman. I prefer getting my knowledge directly from the source, from those who are passionate."

He quirked his brow at that, and licked his lips. She leaned in, in a show of anticipation, and partially in self-preservation, as speaking highly of the Legion outside of Legion lands would likely put a mark over one's head, and not the kind of mark she held in her hand. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet, though it was confident. His voice was almost musical in quality, though she doubted he used it for singing much. He was a man of discretion and subterfuge, not of the arts.

"The Legion is civilization reborn. Our culture is based on virtues such as loyalty, martial excellence, and justice, as you saw in Nipton all those weeks ago. Our lord, the mighty Caesar, has subverted and assimilated 87 tribes into his vast empire in the East. We have carved a bloody hole through profligate 'civilization', and in due time, you will see what Caesar's Legion is capable of, when Legate Lanius, Monster of the East, arrives to command Caesar's troops in battle, defeating the NCR, and felling the dam. The profligates west of here, will soon follow afterwards."

It wasn't exactly an answer to her question. Her question was trying to gauge the more abstract vision that Caesar had, but she supposed she could ask Caesar himself in a few days' time.

"I would tell you more, though all of your questions will be answered in the coming week." Abruptly, and doubly, confusingly, he got out of his chair. "Until we meet again. A frumentarius' work is never done. I bid you vale."

Inculta was tight-lipped, that was confirmed by their awkward meeting. She liked to think she was skilled at reading others. If she weren't so skilled, she might've thought he was just a quiet and shy young man. He was a bit older than her, though she couldn't tell if he _merely_ looked older, due to the rough life legionnaires were used to. Blatantly, he was socially awkward. Social awkwardness was often deceiving, however, and was used as a cover for nefarious purposes. It was rare to suspect the awkward egghead in the room of any wrongdoing. But she knew better - he was socially awkward, though he carried with him the ability to commit atrocities.

She wasn't judging, though, only observing.

The streets were crowded, as it seemed to perpetually be, as she noticed on her walk back to the Lucky 38. Peddlers were attempting to sell their wares, and she mercifully declined all of them. The smell of sweat, of booze, of sex, wafted off the crowds who were shuffling, or stumbling, out of the Gomorrah. It was pungent, to say the least, though Eris wasn't so easily disgusted. It was the smell of civilization, and all its highs and lows.

Silence greeted her upon entering the Lucky 38, and to fill it, she turned on the radio on her way up to the penthouse. When she reached House's primary terminal, it took a few seconds for his image to flicker to life. Briefly, she wondered if he ever slept.

"Did you have something to report?" He asked, seeming every inch the cold, businessman that he was.

"Only that I was given Caesar's Mark in the Tops a few minutes ago. So.. I'll be leaving in the morning, then you can wash your hands of me for a few days. As a tip, though, I have to tell you I'm a stubborn stain to wash out." She continued then, "I'm just letting you in on it. So you'll know I died if I haven't come back in two weeks."

"I have my doubts that Caesar will get wind of our scheme. He is a cunning strategist, though he, like General Oliver, is a slave to his ego. He would never imagine you would go behind his back, after he has so liberally given you his Mark, which he believes is the ultimate grace. He'll ask you to investigate the bunker, and I have a plan as to how you will walk away unscathed. We will speak again when you have gained access to my bunker at the Fort." Was that a dismissal? Yeah, it certainly seemed so.

"Keep it real until then." She said, turning her back to his monitors.

"Goodbye." Came his response.


	5. Part I, Chapter V: Cold, Cold Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter's pace will be a little faster than the past few. Eris is going to be introduced to the Legion here. There will be a fair amount of world building in this story, as I want the world to be more fleshed out and believable. The Fort is a military stronghold, and thus, it will be crowded and impoverished. I wanted to capture it realistically, and even more than that, I wanted to capture the legionnaires with the same note of realism. As always, it will be dialogue-oriented rather than action-oriented. Without further ado, let's get on with it.

_I tried so hard my dear to show that you're my every dream_  
_Yet you're afraid each thing I do is just some evil scheme_  
_A memory from your lonesome past keeps us so far apart_  
_Why can't I free your doubtful mind, and melt your cold cold heart?_

_-"Cold Cold Heart", by Hank Williams_

* * *

The seed of servitude was planted in him from his moment of birth. Man's master begins with his father, a violently powerful force that can be tampered only by its equally imperious counterpart - his mother. It was safe to observe and confirm to oneself that in this scenario, it is perfectly predictable that man is being groomed into serving a master from his first day on birth, given the information above. With this information, we can easily see the roots of why men dedicate their lives to serving a hierarchy. Man is like a tree, whose seed lies in his childhood, effectively buried, repressed, and disregarded. So, man, as all trees do, pursues the sun, his branches wandering wildly to bask in the sun's sublime radiance. Now, imagine the sun as the symbol of all authority, and the analogy makes even more sense. Man, thinking he has subverted his whimsical childhood desires, has unknowingly followed through with those same wishes, for all parts of a tree grow for the same expressed purpose, the same ambition Icarus had - to follow the sun. Man has replaced his father with the state, unaware that these two satisfy the same facet of his psyche. And like Icarus, he is invariably burned by the sun's unforgiving heat.

Cottonwood Cove was bustling with life, all steered by the tight reins of Caesar. The legionnaires marched in groups of eight at a time, passing by her, causing blonde wisps to float behind her. Legionnaires simultaneously jeered and gazed lustfully in her direction, unused to free women like herself. Tens of pairs of eyes looked up at her approach from the pen where slaves were kept. Their bodies were beginning to become emaciated, and they looked to her with a mixture of jealousy, desperation, and hopelessness.

"Please, help us! I have children waiting for me at home!" One of the women pleaded in her direction. Eris' eyes met hers, but the one called Canyon Runner beat her to her response.

"Quiet, woman!" He yelled, causing the slave to cower behind the gates.

Eris cocked one light brow, and moved away from their desperate pleas. Everyone had a choice, even if that choice was to die rather than live in servitude to a vision you didn't believe in. These slaves had the choice to go free, though 'free' meant imminent death. While a small part of her pitied these people, an even larger, more prominent part of her was apathetic towards it. Everyone who lived under the Legion was enslaved to it, legionnaires and slaves alike, if the way Inculta spoke was any indication. The only thing that separated those slaves in pens from the legionnaires in Cottonwood Cove was the easy death their collars provided.

Of course, her apathy might take a different direction entirely if she was an actual Legion slave. She couldn't imagine herself in those same rags. _I'd make a horrible slave_.

A band of legionnaires marched past her, their dogs noisily barking and attempting to wander over to her. They could probably smell Vegas on her. It wasn't that good of a smell, though pungent it may be. Their dogs looked well-bred, but that wasn't saying much, considering she wasn't a specialist on dogs.

A severe man stood on the docks, near where the flimsy-looking rafts floated on the river. His hair was cropped short, and he appeared a bit older than the other legionnaires. Though again, it was difficult to measure age based on physical appearance with legionnaires. If he had the job of canoeing visitors upstream to the Fort, though, he had a pretty meandering, albeit tedious, job. If she was a Legion boy, she'd want this guy's job.

"So, judging by the fact that there is no one else manning the stations on the docks, I'm guessing you're the hunk who's taking me to the Fort?" She said cheekily, crossing her arms. He didn't look overly excited to be called a 'hunk', but it was likely he wasn't too thrilled with going against Caesar's wishes to transport her to the Fort unharmed.

"My orders are to escort you to the Legion's camp at Fortification Hill. Are you ready to go?" Straight and to the point - boring.

"Ready as I'll ever be." She sounded.

"The trip will take a few hours. Take your place on the boat."

Was that floating piece of wood even considered a boat? It was more like a raft, if anything. As long as something could float, it could be considered a boat at least colloquially, she guessed. But it didn't have a deck, and it didn't have a motor. If a boat had neither of those things, it was a canoe. If it was a flat piece of wood without even the shape of a canoe, it was a raft. It was a semantic injustice to call this thing a boat.

She sat on the raft, unphased by the fact that this man made of wood continued to stand, his sinewy muscles moving back and forth in a very, _very_ mundane motion, as he shifted the oar. Suddenly, she retracted her statement about wanting to be a bosun in the Legion. A few minutes passed, but the man remained stoically silent. Now, she wasn't that good at judging the passing of time, as she barely noticed it, but she knew this would take a long time, though knowing that time didn't stop to cater to the whims of man.

"So, what's your name?" She asked.

"I am Cursor Lucullus." Came his humble answer.

"And you do this all day, every single day?"

"I have been tasked with transporting people and supplies from Cottonwood Cove to Fortification Hill. It is an honor to be given this important role by the mighty Caesar." He said flatly, as though he rehearsed all the lackluster responses he gave to anyone from outside the Legion.

"Do you ever think about doing more? Maybe, upgrading to a different post? You could aspire to do much, much more than this in your life, you know." She said, taking a cigarette out and lighting it.

"It is not my place, or in my interest, to question my commanding officers. It is especially none of your concern where my lord decides to place me, Dissolute." His flat reply caused a chuckle to sound from her chest.

"Ever played a game of Caravan?" She asked.

"No. In his infinite wisdom, the mighty Caesar has forbidden activities that could potentially sway us from our duty as a martial society."

"That sounds dull! But, you know, there's not a soul in sight for hours. Can I tempt you to play some Caravan with me? I could teach you, I'm a good teacher, or so I've been told." Actually, she'd never been told that.

"I suggest you should not peddle your corrupting profligate activities to other legionnaires in Fortification Hill. It is against all of our laws, and in our lands, you must abide by our law, for the mighty Caesar is all-seeing, whether you have received his Mark or not." He sounded like a broken record at this point, kind of life the record player she had in her suite at the Lucky 38, but this one didn't croon.

"God, you're dull.."

A couple hours passed, and mother nature made her demands known to her. She needed to pee, or she was going to burst. Maybe that vodka earlier was a bad idea.

"I have to pee. Can you turn around?" She asked, fully knowing that this wooden toy soldier wouldn't be swayed from his duty to proudly row his raft.

"I am forbidden to turn my back on you. Don't worry, I have no interest in the bodies of the Dissolute." He said. Well, at least he wasn't a pervert. That had to count for something, right?

She pulled down her khaki pants, and in a moment she wouldn't be forgetting in a long time, squatted over the edge of the water. An idea came to her then, an idea to bother Lucullus. If she couldn't get him to hold a fluid conversation with her, the least she could do was annoy him, or get him hot and bothered.

So naturally, she started moaning audibly as she relieved herself, keeping eye contact with the rigid bosun. He stared ahead, his brows furrowing at the wanton sounds coming from the back of her throat. A lopsided smile appeared on her face as she watched him shift his head ever so slightly towards the other side of the horizon, trying to keep her in his peripheral but trying to lose her eye contact with him. A light blush began to make its way to the tops of his cheekbones, and she knew he was steamed now.

"All finished. Thanks for serving as my loyal protector, while I lay prone to the dangers of the waters below."

She must've smoked nearly a whole pack of cigarettes by the time they finally made it to the Fort. The sky was growing more and more orange by the second, and it was dusk by the time she finally saw her first few rows of crosses. The whole path leading up the Fort was decorated with them, actually. There must've been at least a hundred crosses all lining the pathway up to the grimy walls guarding Caesar's camp. She took her sweet time getting used to the smell.

 _The smell_. Freeside smelt like garbage, piss, and 'unidentified' human body parts, but it didn't hold a candle to this. Human feces coated the lower board of wood of nearly every cross, and it smelt revolting, and that was saying something, because her stomach was strong. Maybe it was the leftover nicotine causing her stomach to roll, but she doubted it as she took in the smell and the sight of human excrement on the ground below the crosses. A woman crossed her path then, her back reeling underneath the weight of what she assumed were supplies for the Fort up ahead. Pain etched into her features, but otherwise, her expressions and movements were schooled, as though it was normal for her to carry the weight of at least a hundred pounds on her back.

Legion patrols marched up and down from the walls of the Fort to the docks below. A man, who stood out like white on black in the scenery, stood not far from the entrance to the Fort. He looked like a caravaner of sorts, with his red bandana and brown Stetson hat.

"What's a guy like you doing in a place like this?" She asked, mimicking the pick-up lines she'd heard both men and women use in the various taverns in the Mojave.

He didn't look like a legionnaire, so she wanted him to know he wasn't alone in standing out from the crowd. Maybe that would help loosen his tongue, and it did for a faint, familiar smile lit his face at the 'profligate' language he probably didn't hear often enough around here.

"You must be that visitor some of the legionnaires have been talking about. I'm Dale Barton, and if you're looking to trade, just say the word." He said, offering her his hand, to which she shook.

"So, have you ever met the big hoss here?" She asked.

"Nah, I haven't had the pleasure. I have crossed paths with his second-in-command, Legate Lanius, however. It was.. unpleasant."

She'd heard a bit about the Legate, mostly in hushed tones. They called him 'Monster of the East', like he was a tribal myth or something. For all she knew, he was. If Caesar was well-versed with Greco-Roman customs, then he probably knew how to create legends like that to keep up the tradition of creating mythical standards for his men to look up to. The Legate was like a modern rendition of Hercules, in a manner of speaking.

"Kindly tell me more about Lanius, if you would." She said.

There was this weird practice she kept to, and it was refusing to refer to people with their title, unless it was a matter of life and death, of course. It felt almost like she was betraying herself when she called others by their military titles. Even calling House 'sir' outside of sarcasm felt.. wrong. She was aware it was pointlessly rebellious.

"He's the best the Legion has to offer, or so the legionnaires say. Big brute of a man, wears a fancy metal mask into battle. He killed one of my pack brahmin simply because it was in his way. I knew better than to complain about it, though.."

"Does it put you in a precarious situation, hanging around the Legion like this? Is it ever dangerous?" She asked.

"Not at all - they're my best customers. As long as you don't try to peddle 'em chems or alcohol, they treat you fair. Hell, I don't even need to travel with guards most of the time in Legion lands. All the bandits are dead or run off."

That gave her something to think about. Legion territory seemed the exact opposite of the lands occupied by the NCR back in the Mojave. Normally, a couple vipers or highwaymen would cross her path, holding her at gunpoint, trying to rob her of the valuable piece of technology she had on her right wrist. The NCR weren't known for keeping a tight rein on criminal uprisings in their lands. Case in point being the Powder Gangers, a fucking menace in the southern regions of the Mojave.

She never kept many caps on her, seeing as she liked to travel light, and keeping money on you was dangerous when you traveled. She'd left most of her humble fortune back in her safe at the Lucky 38, so she declined the trade offer with Dale. He had some mean-looking guns, but stubbornly, she stuck with her silenced pistol, which had turned out to be useful for nearly every occasion.

Actually seeing a Legion encampment with her own eyes was something she wasn't likely to forget anytime soon. Slaves walked back and forth between cots, tending to the sick and wounded. Gone was the smell of rot and shit, replaced with the smell of burning sage and other herbal remedies. Some of the women were garbed in long, modest dresses, looking every inch like priestesses she'd read about in history books detailing the religious sphere of Roman life. Some of them had no collar at all, unlike the slaves she'd seen back at Cottonwood Cove. Maybe they were married? Or, maybe there was no chance they'd up and run down to the river to make their great escape.

She watched as a group of prepubescent boys were being taught by an officer what she assumed the principles of the Legion were. She wasn't fluent in Latin, with the exception of knowing the root words and a few phrases. So, she guessed what he was talking about based on inflections alone. In front of him, the children repeated his words back to him, their high-pitched voices combined with the musical quality of Latin making them sound like an archaic caricature of a choir.

Going off the assumption by the largest tent being Caesar's, she headed for it. Banners bearing the sigil of the bull along with golden emblems surrounded the large canopy. The guard searched her for weapons, though he was unaware that her weapon was currently strapped to her inner thigh like always. He wasn't as soft as the Chairmen had been back in the Strip, his hands were rough and calloused, pitiless and dutiful.

Her head ducked underneath the cloth opening, and she peeked inside before squeezing her small body into the opening. The guards at the entrance to the Fort had confiscated her cigarettes and flip lighter, but if she'd had a cigarette, she knew she'd be taking deep exhales from it. They always helped her glide by smoothly in conversations, providing a welcome distraction from making continuous, uncomfortable eye contact. Plus, she'd go through full-tilt nicotine withdrawal if she wasn't allowed to have a cigarette while she was here, going off the assumption she'd be staying overnight in one of those rundown tents.

There he was, the man himself. He sat, reclined in his makeshift throne, speaking with the legionnaire nearest to him. _This is underwhelming_. She'd expected a tall brute of a man, but she supposed he was the brains of the operation after all. He was bald, like House had suggested, the short, white fuzz the only thing covering his head. If she had to guess, he was about average height, nothing special. His facial features weren't rugged, but they were lined with years of military command and experience. If she had to give a word to it, he looked tired; stressed, even.

Finally, after a few moments of waltzing lackadaisically over the rugs and nearer to his throne, she'd caught his attention. He looked over her, his eyes roaming her figure in unfamiliar tactical assessment. He tilted his head back, whether it was invitingly or proudly, maybe a mixture of both, she wasn't sure. His expression was schooled, like all of the legionnaires she'd met thus far, besides the lines of stress on nearly every inch of his face. He looked older than he probably was, and he was in good shape for a man on the older side. None of the pudge that came with the territory of most leaders was there, only lean muscle. On his right hand was a power fist, which was conveniently powered down, she noticed.

"So, you're the courier who's caused so much trouble for my Legion, and yet here you dare come before me." She quirked a brow at that, confused at what he meant. So far, she'd expended no resources, vocally or otherwise, to torment his wooden soldiers. "So tell me this, because I really want to know. I am feared - with good reason. But you - a woman - dare to come here and stand before me, the might Caesar. What were you thinking?"

She tried to think about why he would say what he was saying. Sure, she'd verbally tortured the bosun on the way here, annoying him with her 'profligate' whims, but she'd never attacked a Legion camp, and nor had she done anything else to gain the ire of Caesar. Option two, he might be trying to intimidate her into admitting she'd done something wrong, even though as far as he knew, she hadn't done anything. Well, she had mercifully killed the crucified Powder Gangers back in Nipton, but Inculta hadn't been around to see it, and it was three days after she'd woken up, so how could she be blamed when she hadn't known better?

"Well, in your _infinite_ honor and wisdom, you did guarantee my safety. I suppose this is what I get for being a man, well, _woman_ , of honor in the Wastes.." She said, hoping she was right and he was bluffing. She stared at her nails, periodically looking up to gauge his severe expression.

"And you fell for that? Really? Because I'm going to have you killed now." He said, though his eyes didn't match the aggressive tone his voice had taken on. The corner of her lip raised a bit at the dark humor of the man before her. "Relax.. I'm fucking with you." A breath she didn't know she'd been holding escaped her then, and she realized her fingers were shaking a bit, as if preparing to unholster the gun at her thigh. "You do know why I wanted to meet you right? A man nearly kills you, so you track him across the breadth of the Mojave, and kill him in his own casino? You arrive on the Strip and waltz into the Lucky 38 like someone left you a key under the doormat? When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like your drive."

He didn't look at her as the other legionnaires had - like she was a piece of meat, and they were starving like a dog for feminine affection and motherly nurturing. It was as if he didn't even take into consideration that she was a woman at all, which seemed accurate. So, why did he even dictate at all that women were lesser than men, if he didn't even follow those same rules himself? She considered it might be due to the sheer atrocity of such a rule, as intimidation was nearly as effective as 'martial excellence', as Inculta put it.

Though he was a vicious warlord, no doubt about that, he seemed clever, and she wondered if he spoke often to people outside of his own tribe. A man like him, who knew enough about Ancient Roman society must surely be well-read, and there was nothing more she wanted in this moment than to pick his head, though she was sure he had some menial task for her, and she'd have to butter him up before she could have any substantial discussion with him. It reminded her of House, whom she was currently doing the same for - buttering up so he'd spill some information about things she was curious about. That, and he seemed like a good partner to debate with.

Caesar didn't seem the debating type, though. The words he used and the way he used them suggested he was more of a lecturer than a debater.

"It compels me to ask, Courier, what drove you to choose the name you go by? I am sure you're well aware that I am aware what your name means - Eris, Greco-Roman deity of deception, cunning, and sedition. Now, why choose a name like that in a time like this, when everyone shits their pants at the sound of any word originating from the ancient Mediterranean world?" He asked.

"If you must know, you are not the only scholar of ancient history in the Wastes. Though I have little participatory memory to go by on the subject of my past, I do know _some_ things. One can learn _so much_ from ancient Greek literature. And I say Greek, because I believe them to be the superior Mediterranean culture." She stuck up her nose in mock pride, crossing her arms in emphasis.

"I am a forgiving master, but an insult to my methods is an insult to me. As someone unaccustomed to the ways of my Legion, I will let your cheek go, but only this time." He said sternly, though she wondered if inside, he was secretly overjoyed to be challenged. The only reason she even considered that was due to the very small pull in the corner of his lips. "Regardless, Ancient Greece was a civilization where to be a philosopher was to be a degenerate homosexual. It was a heterogeneous culture divided into hundreds of city states, driven to war with each other by the lack of tangible vision of the common good, much like the NCR now. What I've learned in my time here, is that you can learn a lot, if not the most, from old books."

"Come on, what about Plato's Republic? Even you can admit there are some sound ideas there?" She asked lightly, hoping to keep her voice steady, even though inside, she was beaming with intrigue.

"Sound in theory, though in practice? Plato was a romantic on paper, with a clear and concise purpose on paper, but he made no effort to change the world. No, he preferred sitting on his ass and watching his fatherland devolve into a cesspit of greed, individualism, and democracy. I care about results, which is why I hold favor with the stoics of Ancient Rome, a civilization that willed its dreams into reality." He said. "Now, I expect the same practice from you on the topic of results. Are you ready to get started?"

"That depends on what you were looking to start, Caesar." She answered, working hard to make it seem that she wasn't sassing, because she wasn't - it really did depend on what he wanted her to do. She didn't sell her services lightly.

"The time is fast approaching when my Legion will assault the great dam and invade the west. Before that happens, I want Mr. House knocked out of the game, a quick one-two punch - with you doing the punching."

"What did you have in mind?" She asked, her tone civil yet noncommittal.

"Down the hill, at the west of camp, is an old building. It was here when The Fort was taken in 2277. Inside the building is a hatch, and inside that hatch, are two steel doors that bear the sigil of the Lucky 38 casino. So you know what I think? I think that Platinum Chip you're carrying, the one House was so interested in retrieving, the same one the head Chairman almost killed you for, opens those doors - doors that can't be pried open, drilled open, or blasted open. Because all that, I tried."

So he wanted her to sabotage House's plans, but even she didn't know what was inside the bunker at the Fort. She'd already made up her mind as soon as he started talking about House's removal from the game, that she would indulge him now, but she wouldn't be following through with his plans to knock House out. Though she'd only rightly knew the man for a little over a week now, it was made apparent that he had more to offer her, without taking away her civil rights, like Caesar would have. Like Swank had said, he kept a tight rein on Vegas, but so would any competent leader.

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Eris was fair, though. She listened to what everyone had to say about their own tribe, their own beliefs, and their own methods, and chose her words carefully. Besides, she was normally so noncommittal and so preoccupied with excitation and novelty that she never actually _chose_ sides - just played with it. All's fair in philosophy and play, and she was a dirty player.

"And once I'm inside the doors, then what?" She asked, although she suspected from the numerous paths this could take, what he'd be telling her to do.

"I want you to destroy whatever you find in there. And then, I want you to come back here and tell me about it. Is that understood?" He asked, maintaining an uncomfortable level of eye contact that had her wanting to crack jokes just to distract him from how nervous he made her. "So go to the building and take the fucking Platinum Chip with you. My legionnaires will meet you there, with your weapons and equipment. Go and rest for tonight if you need it, I have arranged for you a small tent not far from my own, so that you may know that the mighty Caesar can be merciful."

"Thank you, Caesar, your mercy knows no earthly limits." His face hardened at that, but his eyes did not waver. Maneuvering his expression must've been enough to trick legionnaires, but it wasn't enough to fool her. He was amused!

"Watch your tongue, Courier." He leaned back then, effectively dismissing their conversation. House was right, Caesar really did believe she'd serve him. He was an erudite man, though he was a man even still, and his ego was large enough to compete with House, though unlike House, he did not anticipate treachery. "Inculta." He called.

The vulpine man came forward, bending the knee in front of the makeshift throne that Caesar sat in. She hadn't seen Inculta without a hat thus far, so it seemed.. odd? She also hadn't seen any legionnaires with hair that was longer than a utilitarian, military cut, but his hair was long and swept past his ears. She supposed it made more sense, seeing as he dealt in infiltration, and having longer hair solidified to the public in the Mojave that one did not have affiliation with the Legion.

"I assume you're familiar with the greatest of my frumentarii, Vulpes Inculta?" Caesar asked.

"Familiar enough. Why, we're pretty much on second base after that last social call we had." She sassed.

"Funny. You're a real comedian, aren't you? Unfortunately for you, Courier, I have no room in my court for jesters. Inculta, show her to her tent, see that she is unharmed while she is here." Vulpes bowed, and then returned to his feet not long after. "Oh, and Eris? If you betray your word in anyway, I will hear of it. Afterwards, I will have my praetorian guard hack you to bits for my own amusement. Serve me faithfully, though, and I will reward you better than House ever could."

Unfortunately for him, she'd actually _never_ given her word that she would destroy whatever was down in the bunker. With the cunning of a fox (no pun intended for the man walking next to her), she'd played him without actually lying. Lying by omission wasn't semantically lying, after all. In fact, she was surprised that Caesar, in his doubtless wisdom, hadn't called her out on the vague answers she'd given him.

"It's so incredibly good to see you again, Fox. The universe keeps trying to put us in these awkward situations together, maybe it's trying to tell us something." She said. Last time they spoke, he was being painfully (and boringly) tight-lipped about the Legion.

"Don't make me laugh, Courier. You should be aware that the universe is impartial, it doesn't hold favor for any of us. This is the lessons I have been taught serving the Legion. Any claim to the contrary would imply any of us are somehow more special or.. worthy. In the Legion, we all serve the same vision, equally." His eyes shifted between her and the tent he was leading her to. There were several rows of tents, how could she remember which was hers?

"How egalitarian of you. There's only one problem with your ideology, and it breaks my heart to poke holes in what you undoubtedly believe is an infallible view. Your claim that all humans are equal under the banner of the Legion is, quite frankly, inconsistent with your actions. You say that all of you serve the same vision, but why is it that Caesar doesn't have to break his back carrying supplies, or risk his life out on the battlefield? Why is it that a woman is judged lesser, when ideologically speaking, she is as equally subservient to Legion ideas as yourself?"

"It is tragic that you are a Dissolute, or else I could tell you that you have high intellect, for a woman. Despite this, you must know that the Legion does not believe Caesar is a man at all. Rather, he is the son of Mars, in the flesh. Further, women are physically and intellectually inferior to their male counterparts. The ancients, and Caesar, in his wisdom, knows this. But it is fair, and I will tell you why. Men of the Legion serve Caesar on the battlefield, through war and death, while women of the Legion serve Caesar in the domestic fields, through medicine and childbearing. They do not risk their lives as men do, and for that, they are obligated to serve men."

She supposed it was justified, on paper. If men served their hypothetical leader through have a 50/50 chance to die on the battlefield every time they entered combat, it was only right that they be rewarded as all the common men wanted - through feminine affection. Furthermore, if women lived comfortably and in a peaceful environment, she supposed it was only fair that they give back to the state that provided it. Although, looking around her, she could see clearly that their environment was far from clean, comfortable, or peaceful. In that case, it was unfair.

"But technically," she started, "Caesar is a man, or _being_ of the Legion. You did say _all_ serve the same vision, didn't you? Going by that logic, Caesar is in fact a slave, and you are worshiping a slave. Also, it means that if I want to personify this..." she looked for an inanimate object, finding a prop immediately, "this tent canopy as a being, breathe creative life into it by my own will, then technically, it is a being of the Legion, which means that this tent is as valid as Caesar. This tent can be on equal footing with your leader."

He stared at her then. It felt like the for the first time, he actually saw her, and had nothing of substance to provide except silence. While she was fond of winning debates, she got an odd.. almost pitying feeling from rendering Inculta silent. She thought about her callousness then, then she thought about how likely it was that Vulpes had never heard a thinker outside of Caesar explain logic to him. Sure, he had plenty of freedom when he went to the Strip to hear opinions from different perspective, but maybe he was just brainwashed, like that dullard that rowed her here earlier. Only, Vulpes wasn't dull - far from it, actually. If he was the spymaster of the Legion, he must have a rich knowledge of human behavior and culture.

"I have given my life to the mighty Caesar, and I refuse to indulge the words of a dissolute woman who fancies herself a Socrates of the wasteland. If that is all, then I bid you vale, and I am sure we will meet again soon. Sooner than you think." He said, ducking out of the tent as quickly as he had walked in.

Eris was surprised at herself for the small amount of.. pity, she felt after her brisk philosophical conversation with fox-man. What he had said about the universe being impartial wasn't something your average vapid legionnaire would say, indicating that he had somewhat of an understanding of metaphysics, though this was repressed by his martial duties to Caesar - the brutish, stoic, bloody, life of those who served the Legion. She doubted they had a chance at all to play at philosophies differing from Caesar's.

For a moment, she pondered on whether House and Caesar had any similarities, until she realized the only similarity was some of their utilitarian methods. House didn't force the tribes currently running the businesses on the Strip to change their way of life under the pain of death, he only forced them to do it if they wanted a life of luxury, which seemed only slightly unfair, though at least he wasn't warmongering about it. Caesar, on the other hand, _did_ forcefully assimilate tribes under the threat of death. Not that she was repulsed by that, it was only the law of the wastes, after all, but it did put a tally mark under House's name in regards to the benefits he offered over others.

So, what was she supposed to do until she fell asleep? Twiddle her thumbs? There were no books, no cigarettes, and the Pip-Boy on her wrist wasn't even picking up on any nearby radio stations, except that 'unidentified/mysterious broadcast' that was nearly always picked up, no matter how far she strayed from the heart of the Mojave. So, she turned those jazz tunes on, and began writing down the questions she was going to ask Caesar before she left tomorrow. Because that's what she was doing, leaving as soon as possible. Besides learning more about Caesar's ideology from Caesar himself, there was nothing to do here. It was likely the most boring place she'd ever seen, and it was all because she couldn't smoke.

After a couple hours, she was beginning to get jittery. It had been a few hours since she'd last took a hit from a cigarette, and she was getting kind of antsy.

There was some movement outside of her tent, and Eris looked outside to see a woman in rags, with a red 'x' marked over her chest. She was small, smaller than Eris. Her skin was dark, like the Afro-Hispanics that weren't too uncommon all around the southwest. Short, dark hair covered her scalp, which Eris was able to see through. She wondered if it was a requirement of all slaves to shave their heads, so they would be more like animals, and then the legionnaires would be less likely to sympathize with them. Or, maybe she just liked having short hair so that it couldn't be pulled. The slave woman's arms shook under the heat of the bowl she was carrying. It must have been food, how generous of them, seeing as she packed no food like the grimy drifter she was.

"Well, don't just stand there. You're giving me the creeps. You can come in, doll face." Terms of endearment were starting to fall easier from her lips after spending so much time in urban environments these days. Soon, she'd be saying 'fink' like she was a fucking Chairman.

The woman came in, her head low, her eyes not daring to meet Eris' face. It was _alien_ , to say the least. Eris made a huge effort to make herself seem approachable, it was what she was good at. She was an adept marksman, good enough to not land herself in an early grave (ironic?), but her true talents were in social maneuvering. The slave placed the wooden bowl of something unidentifiable in front of her lap. It looked like brahmin and boiled maize, but she couldn't be sure yet. Though those two food items personified the pragmatism of the Legion - tasteless but healthy, somewhat.

"Wait, before you go." She said, causing the slave to turn around. "What's your name?"

"My name is Siri." She answered, her chin still glued to her chest. Annoying.

"And what's your story?" Was Eris' question.

The woman finally looked at her with a surprise that was immediately hidden afterwards, "I come from a small town in New Mexico. The Legion burned it a few years back, and that's how I ended up here."

"What's life like as a woman here? How do they treat you?" She asked, but continued again so as to reassure the woman who looked startled, "You can trust me, Siri. I'm a visitor here, and I have a curious, and what I like to think, unbiased mind. It would check no tally at all on my agenda to turn you in for roasting the Legion behind their back. We're both only women here, after all."

"While you're here, they might try to tune down some of the brutality here to appeal to you, an outsider. The truth is, though, we women are property. If you're too young or too old, the men usually leave you alone. Usually. Watch out while you're here. Even if you have Caesar's blessing, I've overheard some of the men talking about you when they think no one's listening."

"Thank you, Siri. Maybe when we next meet, you'll be a free woman?" Eris half-joked.

"If by free, you mean dead. If only I could get across the river.. but there's no point in trying. I've seen what happens to those who try." Siri answered, her voice turning more severe than before.

So, the Legion was good for caravaners, good for men who were natural soldiers, poor for intellectuals, poor for women. The two _sort of_ cancelled themselves out, but she doubted anyone here debated over the value of human life, besides Caesar. And when Caesar debated over the value of human life, he likely saw no value beyond their usefulness in combat or breeding. What a waste of an otherwise stable society.


	6. Part I, Chapter VI: Only A Fool Would Say That

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I hope I captured some of the Legion's woes in the last chapter. It is far from my interests to make them the panto villain of this story like they often are. Eris is quite curious, as unbiased as any human can be, and likes to pick the brains of people who have different perspectives than her. She has a very hard time containing herself from arguing with others, as she looks for the flaws in other people's ideas first and foremost, and sometimes, she does this callously, without even thinking about the repercussions it might have on the individual.
> 
> Also, I had a ton of enjoyment explaining absolute idealism, a philosophy attributed to Hegel, in this chapter.

_The man on the street dragging his feet don't wanna hear the bad news_

_Imagine your face there in his place, living inside his brown shoes_

_You do his nine-to-five, drag yourself home half alive_

_And there on the screen, a man with a dream.._

_I heard it was you, talking about a world where all is free_

_It just couldn't be, and only a fool would say that._

_-"Only A Fool Would Say That", by Steely Dan_

* * *

Freedom is a philosophically problematic word. The entire human species was enslaved to at least one thing at all times - whether that be material gain, sex, martial conquest, or, controversially, freedom itself. How then, is it possible to be a slave to freedom? one might ask. A man who lives under the illusion that he is free in some aspects, or indeed, in all things, will live, fight, and die, for that freedom. A slave who labors under the whip of his master is much the same - in that he will live, fight, and die for his master. The greatest problem? There were more slaves to freedom than there were slaves to men, and while servitude to an idea is among the highest of virtues, servitude to a redundant illusion is not.

"Caesar has put a lot of trust in you. Be worthy of it." One of the legionnaires said as she walked closer to the terminal with the little chip-shaped slot on it.

As much as she didn't care, she'd probably never be worthy of trust in Caesar's mind. She was a proud degenerate, through and through. And while she was a slave to the highest virtue, which was wisdom, she'd never allow herself to willingly be a slave of Caesar's. She was a chaos agent, not an agent of Roman standards. She dropped the little chip, which at first glance, seemed irrelevant and unassuming, into the slot in the console.

The earth shook underneath her feet, and the steel doors shielding the bunker opened up, revealing stairs to a metallic underground facility. Waiting down at the end of the stairs were two doors, which, as Caesar had said before, bore the sigil of the Lucky 38. As soon as she entered, that familiar metallic taste reared its ugly, radioactive head. How could House have been so negligent that he forgot to inform her that this bunker was completely and totally irradiated? She had words to say to him, angry words. Suddenly, House's digital image was annoying rather than aristocratically handsome, she thought as she approached.

"House?! Did you know this fucking place was irradiated? Maybe I wanted to have kids somewhere down the line, but _oooooh no_!" She began. Already, her whole body was beginning to be engulfed in that weird, warm feeling from being exposed to radiation, and no one ever quite got used to it.

"Oh? I had assumed, as resourceful as you have been thus far, you would have _prepared_ for venturing into an underground bunker that belonged to a robotics corporation!" He yelled with equal fervor in his voice. At least he could dish out as much as he took, that was a rare talent.

"Hello? _I_ had assumed, given this was a pre-war bunker, it would be safe, so I didn't even think about it. Now, because of your negligence-"

"My negligence? You are my employee, not my charge! You signed a contract with me, remember? You know fully well what that entails, I'm not going to coddle you. You were complaining about the radiation a moment ago, but as you said just now, you have little time before you will be afflicted with acute radiation sickness. So stop wasting time, ask the right questions, and do what I asked! We'll have plenty of time for _social calls_ when you return to the Lucky 38." He said, starting out angrily but then ending with the same business-like tone he usually carried.

"Alright, what exactly am I doing here?" She asked, trying desperately to keep her cool with him, even though all she wanted to do was argue.

"You need to manually upload the data from the Chip to the facility's primary computer. There's a terminal at the other end of this facility. There's a complication. While I can broadcast to this screen, I can't control any of the facility's systems. That means I can't deactivate its security bots.. most of which appear to be active, according to this status board I'm looking at."

 _Fuck_. This was going to be a long day.

"Okay, I'm off then. Got any Rad-X hidden around here before I go?"

"If there is, I'm unaware of it. Time spent looking for it is time you could've otherwise spent finding that terminal here." He pointed out.

"Hello! I'd like to file a complain with RobCo Industries!" She yelled as she took off away from his terminal, hoping he could hear it.

Alright, so this was what she believed would be the first of many times she got mad at her employer, and it was difficult to make her mad. Normally, she was too apathetic or lost in her own ideas to get mad at anything. And what was that bit about her signing a contract with him and remembering what it entailed? Was he aware that she'd lost all of her memory up until the point Benny was standing over her stone-cold body? Surely not, or he wouldn't have said what he had about that worthless contract.

Besides, she was sure the contract didn't include her delving into an irradiated bunker underneath a camp crawling with Legion. So everything they were scheming at this point was beyond what she'd originally signed up for, and now she was just in it for the ride, not even pay. She couldn't care less about the money. So why exactly was she doing it, she thought as she shot her way through the security bots. In truth, she didn't know why she was working for House, she didn't even believe in his goals, really. At least, he hadn't swayed her yet. She didn't even know who she was, or what she represented, and right now, she was fine with that. But what about when House wanted some answers, or some explanation behind why she was doing this in the first place?

She'd probably come up with something clever, something cliche about saving the world from the corruption of the NCR or the brutality of the Legion, but House was good at catching bluffs and finding the liar among honest men. Just look at Benny - if he's even in the same place anymore, lying in his own blood, face down on his own bar counter. What a fucking amazing way to go, really, in the middle of thinking you're getting ass, and then _boom_ , nothing.

This place was a fucking maze, she thought, as she fought her way through to the deeper levels. She wasn't exactly built for war, she was built for strategy and social conflict. Why couldn't House do this? Was he just lazy or.. was he unable to? Now that she really started thinking about it, the second option made a whole lot more sense than the first. He didn't really seem the type to let others do important jobs for him if he could do it himself. But really, what did she know? She barely knew her employer as it was, and likely was the only person in the wastes who'd spent enough time around him to know what an ass he was, albeit an insightful and oddly likeable ass.

Obviously, others didn't feel the same, if Benny, the Legion, and Freeside were any indication of that. She wondered why. He seemed fair, if not a little, well okay, _quite_ demanding, but he was no Caesar. She needed more perspectives to really get a fresh, objective look on him and the effects he was having on the Strip.

The only sound in this otherwise silent facility was the beeping of her Geiger counter on her right wrist, which was annoying her enough to tempt taking it off. She couldn't remember ever feeling this awful, but she couldn't remember anything while she was at it. She wasn't letting House get the last word on this, that was for damn sure. Matter of fact, she didn't let anyone get the last word on anything. For a moment, and only a moment, she wondered what even prompted her to take the courier job to begin with. Maybe she'd been a whore looking for honest work, or maybe a drifter looking for stability - House would know, since he seemed to know more about her than even she did. He remembered their contract, while Eris had no recalling of it whatsoever. While not burdened by knowing nothing of herself, which came with the territory of having little to no real ego, she was sure it could be used against her. Fortunately, not that many people knew about her lack of memory, with the exception of Caesar (which naturally, meant the whole Legion), Benny (who was probably a pile of ash by now), and Doc Mitchell.

Everyone would know soon enough, and while not a particularly private person (she made her ass very available), she didn't like odds being rigged in her opponents' favor.

This radiation, though.. the chances of growing an extra limb or losing her nose to ghoulification got her picking up the pace. Actually, could she make being a ghoul work? The benefits of immortality were immense, but ugliness and being ostracized as a social pariah by civilization pretty much rendered ghoulification a last-ditch effort to hold on to life. Besides, being immortal sounded boring. All the ghouls she'd met so far had seen too much of the world to feel anything but apathy and resignation. Was her employer a ghoul? Sure, it was possible, but cybernetic augmentation was all the rage among scientists these days, she doubted he'd take the easy route to immortality.

Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime but was realistically only about 20 minutes, a console with the same chip-shaped slot pulled her attention to it. She'd already clued in that this place had inactive securitrons that the House needed to rig the odds of Hoover Dam to his favor. Helping leaders prepare for total warfare was in vogue this season. She would know, after seeing all the advertisements.

She hesitated, though, like any proud indecisive would. If she put that chip in that slot, it would pretty much completely tie her to House, cementing her loyalty, at least in his mind. This was her taking a side, not doing a job for an employer. It was in that moment where she had the profound realization that there was no going back after this, no other options. Sure, there would be possibilities and other routes to go, but from now on, it'd be on the same highway. Great, now she was stuck in one of those rare moments of serious contemplation. She hated being forced to make big decisions. She was a 'court jester', as Caesar put it, not a soldier, and definitely not a quasi-lieutenant, like House seemed to treat her.

Eris had never been interested in being part of a collective, it felt like her unconventionality and novelty was being taken away. If she was going to be part of a group, she'd be just like everyone else - part of a cause which only saw its supporters as cogs in a machine. Although.. when her thoughts took her even deeper, there was a pro to being House's right hand (well, left, since she was left-handed), and that was that no one else seemed to support his cause. Actually, now that she was thinking more about it and trying to make up an excuse for herself to do this, siding with House on this issue was the most novel choice of all. Really, she'd be the only person that was doing anything for him.

It was, to some, a poor reason for going through with this and giving House the edge he needed to ensure his control over the Strip and the dam, but she liked taking the third position on nearly anything, because she was annoyingly contrarian like that. Plus, House gave her a lot of liberties in her field work, something she doubted anyone else would do - not that she felt particularly compelled to help anyone else.

So, with the crooked smile on her face she knew she'd become famous for in the coming months, she took the chip and placed it in its slot. Securitrons came to life behind the window ahead of her, their hunched metal necks shifting upwards, their bodies marching forward to the door behind them. The sound was almost overwhelming, so what did she do? She high-tailed it out of there, picking up random nick-knacks on the way so she could trade with Dale for some Radaway.

By the time she reached House's monitor, who she observed was still there, waiting for her, she felt like the breath had been knocked from her lungs. With all this radiation, she felt like she could pass out and die at any time now. Her head was ringing, the metallic taste was becoming unbearably vile, and her skin felt like it was on fire. For once, she didn't want to cut up with House - she'd have plenty of time for that when she got back to the Strip. She'd make up for it by asking him annoying questions, as a punishment for neglecting to tell her this place was irradiated, and because she didn't have the chance to do it now.

"Reporting for duty, captain!" She said, surprised she was still lively enough to force the mock-salute.

"Your work here is finished. Return to the Lucky 38 so we can discuss the next steps." He said, then continued on to say, "You have a very bright future ahead of you." She rolled her eyes. "Thanks to your actions today, so does mankind. Now go, heal your radiation, it'll help no one if you die due to the Legion's primitive medical knowledge." Now, _he_ sounded like he was rolling his eyes.

She half-ran out of the bunker then, to which the station guards looked at her bewilderingly. She was certain those sounds down there could convince Caesar she actually followed his orders - that would be her ticket to survive getting out of here. But first - Dale Barton.

"Out of my way!" She pushed past the legionnaires guarding the outside of the station.

Once she was outside, her knees hit the ground and she panted for a couple minutes before getting on her feet again. _Fuck_ , she couldn't travel like this, and it took a couple days for Radaway to do its job. She needed a cigarette, and bad. The useless guards at the gate gave her back her 'confiscated' items, and as soon as they did, she found Dale, and lit a cigarette.

"Man, that's just what I needed.." She said as she inhaled the thick smoke into her lungs.

It had been almost a full day since she'd last smoked, and the irritation that came with it was driving her nuts. Two more days, and she probably would've been on her knees praying to Mars, or whichever pantheon Caesar had cherry-picked for his Legion. She was sure it was Mars, although she was sure the bull was the symbol of Jupiter, not Mars. History was 'complicated' like that.

"Dale, you still have any of that Radaway from yesterday?" She asked politely, trying not to seem too desperate.

"Sure do, ain't like the legionnaires here are tripping over their feet to cure something they know nothin' about."

"Alright, hold up." She said, looking through her courier bag for the nick-knacks she'd picked up in House's bunker. "Okay, I got a mini securitron model, a paper signed by Robert House himself, you know, for all the fangirls he's got out there. I want at least 20 caps for that. Some batteries here.. oh! A couple vials of Med-X, I'm not going below 50 caps for those. And.. that's all. What will you give me for the batteries and the statuette? Kids can definitely put this on their bedroom shelves, sci-fi is a real hit with them."

"For the batteries? I'll take 'em off you for 10 caps, that's all I can do. 50 caps is fair for the Med-X, the statuette, though? That's worth at least 80 caps. And that paper ain't worth the ass it would be used to wipe." He said.

"C'mon.. Robert House? You know, I'm close with him. I know him real well, he's the founder and CEO of RobCo Industries, the corporation that made this nifty little piece of tech on my wrist. There's so many nerds out there that would die for anything signed by a robotics virtuoso. Take this off of me for 40 caps, and as soon as you find an egghead, you can turn it around for five times the caps, trust me." She put on her most convincing voice, and she watched the turmoil war on his face, and after he uttered a deep, resigned breath, she knew she'd played her cards right.

"You drive a hard bargain, little lady.. I like your sales ethic. I'll buy the autograph for 40 caps, but I can't go over anymore than that." He said, reaching into his cap sack for the correct amount of caps.

"Perfect. You're a sharp salesman." She said, although she knew he'd get next to nothing for the autograph, there weren't enough eggheads out here for that.

"Ever thought about entering the caravan business? If I weren't a solitary caravaner, I'd take you on as a protege in the blink of an eye, you're good at peddlin', that's for damn sure." He shook his head, audibly counting cap by cap until he reached 180 caps.

"Actually, I don't need the caps, I just need all the Radaway you've got, and a couple stims. A pack of cigarettes too, while I'm at it." Dale nodded, and after a few minutes of checking his stock, he returned with three stimpaks, two bottles of Radaway, and a pack of cigarettes. Not the old world kind, the freshly rolled kind - the unfiltered kind that she liked.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Dale. Tell you what, you're ever in Vegas sometime, look me up, my name is Eris. I can get you set up right quick if you ever want to peddle your wares to the drunk and foolish." She winked, though she knew she didn't have any kind of power yet on the Strip. Who knows, though, by the time he could come around, she might be able to get him set up.

"I'll give a holler next time I'm in the area, little lady." He said, tipping his Stetson, "Pleasure."

She snubbed the sizzling cigarette butt underneath her boot, and popped about four of the pills from the Radaway bottle, a decent dose for the amount of radiation she'd taken in the bunker. Granted, she'd be pissing like a prized racehorse for the next couple of days, but the comfort that she wasn't going to be sterile or ghoulified was comforting.

The mess she'd made in her tent had been cleaned, likely by the servants, and so she stripped down to nothing and put a fresh pair of clothes on. Going off common sense, radiation clung mostly to the clothing, so she'd have to burn the tank and khaki shorts. Unfortunate, really, since she'd found those in the Presidential Suite, they were probably priceless couture at some point, now reduced to wasteland canon fodder - a fitting analogy for the fate of old world things.

Rationally, her best bet was to glide on over to the high pharisees Caesar, and lie to him about what she did down in the bunker like the Judas she was. She had places to be, after all.. much more exciting places than the Fort. And there was no air conditioning here, and while Eris lived the low life for much of her time spent in the Mojave, air conditioning back on the Strip had been a huge upgrade from sweating in a desert in the springtime. If this was bad, she wondered how much worse it could get in the coming months. She had some kind of vague hunch in her mind about how seasons were supposed to be.

Communal bathing wasn't exactly something she was jumping up and down in excitement to do, but it was all the Legion had to offer. She didn't really care how many people saw her naked body, for modesty had taken the same route as vehicles out in the wastes. It was damn primitive of pre-war people to lose their shit over seeing a naked person, she thought. She couldn't quite wrap her mind around the idea that once, she could've gotten fined and arrested for taking a bath in public. Weird. Not that she was an nude exhibitionist or anything like that, but the human body wasn't anything special.

"By order of Caesar, shower times are restricted to 10 minutes or less, due to water shortages." _Great_. Maybe that radioactive dust clinging to her hair would make her practically _glow_.

"That's oddly pedantic of him. Don't you know you live next to a river?" Argued Eris.

"Caesar's word is law, you'd do well to remember that, profligate." The stone-faced legionnaire said, not even wavering to look her in the eyes.

She huffed but kept her mouth shut. Starting conflict with anyone was the first thing she wanted, but the last thing she needed while she was here. Stripping down to nothing, she looked around at the pairs of eyes currently gazing in her direction. Her eyes met the beady, tired eyes of slaves, and the cold, dismissive eyes of legionnaires. Had they never seen a healthy woman naked?

"For ten minutes only, you get a real show of a New Vegas broad!" She announced, trying to break the heavy, almost suffocating tension the shower house had stirred up.

Lukewarm water. Better than the alternative, she supposed, but was it even purified? She was probably swallowing lakelurk larvae right now for all she knew. The only soap provided was this tiny, white, utilitarian bar which smelt faintly of horsenettle. She wondered if it was the priestesses who made these holistic soap mixtures, they didn't smell bad, and they certainly seemed to last. Only a woman's hands could make something that appealing in a place like this.

She was in the middle of rinsing her hair when the same guard from before came to collect her. She would've been scared shitless if she hadn't seen it coming. By her estimations, she'd been in here for about 20 seconds more than she should've been.

"Give me a break!" She said through the rushing water, "I just got back from the depths of irradiated hell, doing a job for your overboss. Don't want me contaminating him when I get back, do you?" He said nothing, only stood there like the wooden toy soldiers she'd seen kids in Freeside play with. "Fine, just stand there and watch, that's all you're good for anyways. While you're at it, take a picture, make a sketch, it'll last longer."

Still no response. Usually, she was good at making people take the bait, but it seemed that the Legion really hardened these men up, stripping them of their ego - it was actually kind of impressive. She had her doubts that anyone of those soldiers at McCarran would be able to hold their tongue if she spoke to them like that, because their ego wasn't beaten out of them like these legionnaires.

"I'm done. You can turn around now." She said, ringing the wet, blonde hair of excess water. "Stomp stomp, little bull", she shooed, moving her hand in a dismissive, waving gesture.

After drying up and ensuring the Pip-Boy hadn't got swiped, she dressed and made to dump her bag and little, incriminating machine on her wrist in her tent. It was actually kind of refreshing to not have to watch her back for thieves for a change - any clown from the Strip or anywhere else would've swiped that obscure bit of tech just as soon as they'd look her in the eye.

Caesar was sitting in his 'throne' when she finally made her way to his tent, reading a plain but dense book whose title wasn't made immediately apparent. Whatever title it was, the pages were moth eaten, like its owner had read it similarly to how Christians read their holy books.

"Courier", he began. His voice was not what she had expected when she first came. It was quiet, almost, providing the illusion of patience and understanding. "I felt the ground shake awhile ago. I'll take that as a sign you got the job done. With Mr. House's weapon out of the way, my Legion can finally begin preparing their assault on the Dam, without having to worry about that piece of shit."

"May I ask what you're reading?" She asked, trying to avoid a conversation where she swore to do anything else for him.

"You may, and I just might answer you. But before I bestow you the courtesy, I want you to tell me what you know about Hegel."

Truthfully? Nothing. Sounded like an old world intellectual though, judging by the kind of book he was just worshiping.

"The only thing I know is that I know nothing. That is, about Hegel." She answered.

He sized her up then, hand on his chin, looking more like the image of a thinker rather than a dictator. She supposed that in a world that was more forgiving, he could've been a fine scholar. But the world wasn't forgiving, and while searching for knowledge from the old world thinkers was a pastime of hers, it was more often than not a fruitless pursuit in the wastes. No one cared about wisdom until they got beat in a debate.

"Georg Hegel was an 18th century philosopher who wrote numerous volumes any aspiring sociopolitical scholar should read. He wrote _Science of Logic_ and _Phenomenology of Spirit_ , only to name a few. He had a particular way of organizing various processes into triads. One of these is respectively named Hegelian Dialectics. Another, is his master-slave dialectic. Do either of those things ring a bell?" He asked.

"No, but I have a feeling you might explain them?"

"I suppose you've earned it, after the attack you delivered to House only hours ago." He still sat languorously in his 'throne', but his eyes became more pensive, less hard. " _Herrschaft und Knectschaft_ \- lordship and bondage. The most basic, crudely generalized premise of this theory is that an individual will remain unaware of his or herself until they are made aware of another conscious human. Using the theory of master-slave dialectic, Hegel presents that a slave is liberated from his worthlessness not by means of breaking his chains, but through servitude to the state. The slave begins as a dependent, a utility for sculpting the physical world around him, and through these constructs, does he see that he is also a master of this universe. It's a co-dependency between master and slave, a symbiotic relationship between two individuals. In Hegel's own words: _Humankind has not liberated itself from servitude, but by means of servitude_."

That.. made a lot of sense. Well, remaining consistent with Caesar's logic and methods he'd instructed on the Legion, she could see why Caesar spoke so lovingly of Hegel. Perhaps Caesar was an idealist after all, he didn't seem to speak lowly of the enslaved, he referred to them as co-dependents of the state. Though, she'd seen how the legionnaires spoke to the slaves, how they were treated, and she wondered if that was what Caesar originally intended, or if he knew it was inevitable that man fixates on other men to assert domination. Additionally, if Hegel was right, why is it that no legionnaire seemed _that_ proud to fight for Caesar? They were like wood, as she had thought countless times since coming here.

"Then according to Hegel, all who are enslaved should be more self-aware than they actually are. When in reality, they are like wooden planks covering shattered windows. Shattered windows, meaning the self." She poked.

Actually, this would be easier if she could sit down. Her knees bent, and she looked up to his face to see if he'd reacted to what she was doing. So far, he seemed unfazed, though his head did turn to maintain eye contact.

"That observation is too obvious. What you're really seeing when you look at a slave is not an empty husk, but a human who has had all individualism stripped away from them. Instead, they serve the state, which in turn, serves them. They are a cog in a machine, and every cog is important for the machine to run smoothly. It's called symbiosis - a mutually beneficial arrangement that serves the greater good."

"I see, though I hear that a slave cannot consent to this arrangement, which you call mutually beneficial, even though in theory, it does make logical sense."

"And I hear that it's dangerous to tempt the wrath of Caesar." He said, promptly ending the master-slave discussion they'd been having. Damn, she was looking forward to an argument. Maybe House would be up for it when she got back.

"I have another question for you, Caesar." He said nothing, though in the pseudo book of human communication, that meant 'yes'. "What are your opinions on the NCR? I'm dying to know."

"Do you want my opinion as a former citizen, or future conqueror?" He asked, though before she could answer, he continued. "Actually, my opinion's the same either way. As a young man, I was taught to venerate President Tandi of Shady Sands. 'The Founding Mother of the New California Republic'. Did you know her presidency lasted 52 years? And that her father, Aradesh, was the Republic's first president? That sounds like hereditary dictatorship, not democracy, doesn't it?"

She did _know_ of some of NCR's history, though she wasn't sure how, just as with every other historical fact floating around in her head. What she also knew, however, was that the elections surrounding Tandi was sketchy, at best. She was incredibly popular with the people _and_ the council, that's the extent of what Eris knew.

"But Tandi was voted into office each time, if I recall." She said.

"Because the council didn't dare oppose her. She was too popular. She had the people's love. So things ran smoothly, more or less. And as soon as she was gone, as soon as there could really be 'democracy', what happened then? Ever since losing its queen, the NCR has been weaker, more diffuse. Democracy has been its weakness, not its strength." He explained, political charisma oozing from his voice.

She knew the answer to why she herself believed the NCR could theoretically be called weak, though her answer might be different from Caesar. Military expansionism was something that didn't sit right with her, and she doubted that's why Caesar wanted to cut the proverbial heads of the bear, because he had a similar ideology, only there was no illusion of choice in his Legion.

"What's your reasoning behind thinking the NCR is weak?"

"Greed runs rampant. The government is corrupt, accepting bribes from brahmin barons and landowners, to the detriment of its citizens. The NCR is a loose conglomerate of individuals looking out for themselves. It's lost virtue. No one cares about the collective, the greater good. It's not built to last. I'm just hastening the inevitable." He said, a note of infectious resoluteness in his words. A note that, if she were any more naive, she would've fallen for. His charisma was compelling.

"The NCR may be a loose conglomerate held together by old world glue, but they have size and numbers on their side, making them a powerful foe."

"Of course. They are the most powerful foe my Legion has faced. Also the first to which I am ideologically opposed. Until now, every tribe I've conquered has been so backward and stunted, that enslavement has been a gift bestowed upon them. My conquest of the Mojave will be a glorious triumph, marking the transition of the Legion from a basically nomadic tribe to a genuine empire." His fist raised then, all cult personality-like, and he continued, his gestures animated and inspiring to any passerby, "Just as my namesake campaigned in Gaul before he crossed the Rubicon, so have I campaigned, and will cross the Colorado."

Just then, he leaned forward and grasped at his temple in pain. Hurriedly, she moved off the floor and away from him, though her eyes studied him like an egghead with an insect. She bent down, trying to get a view of his face, all out of curiosity, of course. He howled in pain, cursing between his teeth.

"Caesar?" She asked.

"Get. The. Fuck. Out." He said between groans.

Needless to say, she didn't have to be told twice. She practically danced out of there, with most, though not all, of her questions answered. She decided she'd be skipping town today - she didn't want to be called in as a witness to that, or a conspirator of Caesar's assassination. She liked her entrails too much for that, thank you.

What was wrong with him though? And should she tell House? If she told him, he'd probably be suspicious as to how she'd spent enough time around Caesar to know. She'd tell him eventually, because she was just dying of curiosity now. It was always best to wait a few weeks before telling someone something that could potentially incriminate you, like how kids told their parents of something bad they did only a few months after they did it.

Whatever the case, she got the fuck out of dodge immediately.


	7. Part I, Chapter VII: Act Naturally

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I intend for the vast majority of this story's overarching theme to be cerebral, psychological, and philosophical, though since violence is prevalent in the wastes, I guess it's nigh unavoidable. I know my author's notes are kind of long, but I like getting these ideas out and establishing transparency with anyone reading.
> 
> There won't be much Mr. House in this chapter, though there will be plenty of Eris-House interaction in the next chapter. I want their relationship to build realistically, from him beginning with seeing her as an annoying means to an end, to a protege and something deeper, unexplainable. And Eris, naturally, viewing him as a stuck-up prat whose ideas she wants to pick and prod at, won't be warming up to him for awhile - at least, not substantially.
> 
> I like to imagine that Mr. House is somewhat lonely after all these years, even though it's been established he was extremely solitary before the Great War. Still, the human psyche can only take so much solitude before it becomes stressed and stagnant. I'm not a Hegelian, though I do believe in his slave-master rhetoric in this sense, as you can see from how I extended Caesar's dialogue a bit in the last chapter to include some of Hegel's other ideas which I'm sure Caesar adheres to.
> 
> Mr. House, like all conscious beings, requires consistent interaction with other conscious beings in order for him to be stable. I like writing his interactions with Eris, because I believe he's a good combination of lecturer and debater, unlike Caesar being a one track-minded lecturer. I myself would love to sit down and debate the political figures of this rich universe Obsidian has created. Anyways, I think I've ranted long enough, so here's what you came for.

_Well I hope you come to see me in the movies, then I know that you will plainly see_

_The biggest fool that ever hit the big time_

_And all I'll have to do is act naturally_

_-"Act Naturally", by Buck Owens_

* * *

The curiosity of man is insatiable, and besides the will to dominate, is the only thing which remains consistent throughout the ages. It is a terrible, and powerful force, its very existence being the origin behind the many metropolises that dotted the globe. Man, out of curiosity, kept pursuing questions which did not always have answers, and his hand was forced to build constructs in the physical world to answer those questions. It was said by Aristotle that man was a political being, which in Greek, means that he is a man of city life. The same curiosity that drove man to build civilization from the foundations to the very stars in the form of skyscrapers, also caused him to build weapons of devastating effect, which can annihilate his 'polis', his city, as the Greeks said. Man, in that distinctly 'oroboros'-like loop, uses his curiosity to build, and uses that same curiosity to destroy, because he is lacking in answers to his questions, and annihilation is certainly, always, a tangible answer.

"What do we have here? Another petitioner for the King?" The stocky guy in front of her asked. She didn't like him from the get-go, he had that vibe of acquiring confidence from serving someone more powerful than him.

'The King', what kind of pretentious name was that? Well, actually pretentious names informing the world you are a leader is in style right now. Naming oneself 'The King', was like Caesar naming himself Caesar, which was only a broad title for any Roman emperor coming after the _real_ Julio Caesar.

"Who's this king you're talking about? I don't see any carpets laid out." She said.

"Who's the King? Can you believe this broad, man?" The man looked over to another one of the Freeside gang members in surprise. "Jesus.."

"You called?" She joked. That was one of her all-time favorites, never got old.

"I wasn't talkin' to you, girl. You're in Freeside, and in Freeside, the King rule. And the Kings rule the Kings. Got it?" He asked. This guy was taking himself way too seriously.

"Your chess games must be really confusing.."

"What the fuck is chess?" The guy asked.

"It's a game where you get to kill kings, you idiot. We'll play sometime?"

It came to nobody's surprise that he didn't know what chess was - it was obscure these days. No one used fancy boards and pieces anymore, but the rules hadn't changed, and she knows she's played it before because she remembers the framework behind chess. It was boring as sitting in a Legion camp with no cigarettes, but it was one of the classics. She had respect for the classics.

"The only game we'll be playin' is how far my foot can go up your ass when we knock you to the curb." His accent, much like the Chairmen, was artificial and forced, though like the Chairmen, he'd obviously acclimated to it.

She wondered what new and exciting colloquialisms they'd made, since that same phenomenon was going on all around the Strip. This world was always in need of more synonyms for 'snitch' and 'baby', and Vegas was ready and willing to supply.

"Look, as much as I like sitting here trading insults with you, which - I actually could do all day, no questions asked, I'd like to see the King. Simple enough?" She crossed her arms, waiting for the man's reply.

"Anything's possible, I suppose. How much is it worth to you to see the big man?" Oh no, you gotta be fucking kidding her right now.

She understood, she really did - somewhat. These people in Freeside were poor, this place was a garbage dump sitting real ugly next to the decadence of the Strip. Though usually, the charm of impoverished places was that the locals were more giving, probably lending to their misfortunes, not Freeside, though. And certainly not the Kings. Besides, they didn't seem all that poor to begin with. They were sitting real pretty with their costumes (not unlike the Chairmen) pretending to be reincarnations of archaic cultures. The novelty of it was cool to Eris, but she didn't keep much money on her to begin with, she couldn't pay some visitor's fee that was obviously just made up by the fellow in front of her.

"I'm that courier who got shot in the head, dig? The broad that walked into the Lucky 38 like I owned the place? That was me. I got interests well beyond mail delivery, and I'm new in town. Trying to see all the big players, that's why I came here on my walk home. Spare some pity for a brain-damaged mailman."

After that little bit was said, the gang member looked her up and down, not unlike some of the other men in Vegas, but she didn't really get any rapey vibes from this fellow. He may have been drunk on power given to him by his betters, but he didn't seem too sadistic. She'd know, she was well familiar with that interesting variety of wastelanders.

"If you're really the same courier, lift up your hair and prove it." He said, curiosity having taken over.

So she did as he asked. Who would've thought that getting shot and left for dead in a shallow grave would've been such valuable leverage? Actually, it was kind of predictable - people liked making up legends as a method of living vicariously through people who did more than them. Her fingertips smoothed back some of the straight, blonde wisps covering her temple where the bullets hit only a little over a month and a half ago. She thought the bullet holes added character, and if she had any less of a character, she'd probably rely wholly on being a braindead courier who got shot in the head and was completely ignorant of the finer details of social life. But as it were, the act she played by default was way more novel than someone who got shot. Everyday, someone got shot out here.

"Wow.. so you really are the broad who killed the head Chairman. You know what? I think you and the big man will have plenty to discuss." He leaned back, and his expression was a bit less hostile now. Not exactly friendly, though, she doubted this guy ever smiled. "Head on through. The King's the bored-looking guy by the stage. Can't fucking miss him."

Even if he hadn't described the King, she's sure her important-people radar would've gone off anyhow. It was easy for her to sniff out the somebodies among the nobodies. This 'King' was a stud, though. He looked real smooth with his off-white suit jacket, his combed, dark hair styled into a pre-war fashion, and his thighs were spread - that position men used when they were confident with themselves.

The haggard dog next to him barked at her approach, and she got a good look at him for the first time. Its brain was visible, sitting pretty on top of his head. She'd certainly never seen anything like that, and she'd seen everything out in the wastes. A dog whose brain was suspended in biomed gel above his head was just another day in the wasteland.

"Look, Rexie, someone new's come to see us." The King said, rubbing one of the ears of the hound. He then looked up at her, his dark features looking tired and distinctly unroyalty-like. "Poor boy. He hasn't been feelin' well lately. What can I do for you?"

Well, _that_ was a loaded question. There were a lot of things people could do for her. She could think of five things off the top of her head: a massage (preferably a foot massage in hot water), give her a book by Hegel, a raise from House, a fluid discussion with House, and one last conversation with the ghost of Benny. She wasn't that high maintenance, after all.

"First of all, I'm low on caps and I'm not looking forward to some clown trying to charge me every time I come and see you. That is, if I come and see you again." She said.

"Charge?" He asked, chuckling to himself, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. "Pace must be at it again. Wonder what he took you for?"

"Don't know. I would've offered him the clothes off my back, but this is Freeside, not Gomorrah." Came her quick reply.

The King smiled at her then, "I heard a story about a cat who got shot twice in the head and buried in a shallow grave, not too far south from here. First, they said he'd crawled out of the grave with looking for the man who'd shot him. Then, we figure out 'he' was a she. It's an inspiring story for the people out here, gives 'em hope that they can muster enough strength to survive. You did me a service, killing that no-good Chairman, Benny. He was a friend of mine, once. Then, he thought he was too good for Freeside, he and Mr. House, thought they were too good for the people here. Here, for your services."

She caught the caps he planted in her hand, and shoved them down in her bag where they'd likely get lost forever.

"Don't have a good opinion of House, huh?" She baited, sitting down in the chair across from him.

"Don't get my words shook up, pretty lady. He's been good for business around here, lots of travelers from New Reno and south of the Mojave come pouring in through Freeside to get to the Strip. House only cares about profit for his own little slice of Vegas, he doesn't care about the sick, young, or old of Freeside who are barely getting by from the water and electricity shortages. I do my best to take care of the people, and they look to me for answers. I try to provide for them what I can, you hear?"

"I hear you. So, tell me about your people, tell me about the Kings." She said.

Getting different perspectives, especially about who she was working for, was something she'd set out to do after high-tailing out of Cottonwood Cove. She had this feeling she'd be facing some questionable scenarios with regards to House. Politics was crooked like that, and that's how she liked it. But she needed angles, taking one man's word on anything was a sure way to get indoctrinated, and the last thing she wanted was to be a puppet, with House being the snobby ventriloquist.

"We're different than other gangs, and not just because we dress better. We're not just a group of thugs looking for our next fight. The Kings are about an idea, you see? Where every man is free to follow his own path, do his own thing. Where every man is a king in his own right."

Well.. that was admirable, if not a bit naive. Thinking about it now, she could see why Freeside was in such bad shape. It was that same individualist ideology that caused the NCR to be nothing but a gluttonous, bloated bear, looking for its next course. Every man was free to do what he chooses, only because his happiness was all that mattered? That was only validation, and one of the most selfish ideologies she'd ever heard. She wasn't about taking away people's uniqueness, but a people working toward a solid goal while also maintaining image of self was more admirable than stroking the egos of every nobody - telling them that they're worth something when they're worth nothing in the grand scheme. Telling them that they're doing something right when they're contributing to nothing. Even she tried to contribute, in her own right. Someone needed to cause chaos, so that someone else could build order out of it.

"So every man around here is a King?" She asked.

"We've tried to pass our philosophy on to the people of Freeside, but not everyone is ready to be a King. The kids love us, but the old-timers tend to shy away and keep to themselves. They probably couldn't pull off the look, anyway." He said. He had a quiet confidence about him - suave and charismatic, a huge hit with the honies. And while she didn't like his gang's ideals much, she could admire the man behind them, kind of like how she did with Caesar. "As for the others, some people just plain don't respect others, and that's a no-no. If there's one thing I won't tolerate, it's lack of respect."

 _Probably wouldn't like me then_. Teasing people in power was one of the finer things in life for her, and something she thinks she was born naturally talented at. While not an authoritarian in her own right, she did see the logic in it, and it wasn't anarchist beliefs that led her to attacking authority, it was just a stubborn need to try and make their ideas seem wrong. It benefited her because she liked to win, and it benefited them because it put them in a position where they needed to reinforce their beliefs in a more refined fashion.

"Let's say, hypothetically, I'd like to be a King, and hypothetically, I was a man. Could I join?" She joked.

"Whoa there. Not just anyone can be a King." He said. She latched onto what he just said and immediately started looking for a hole in his defenses.

"Wait, wait. Didn't you just say you were trying to pass on your philosophies to the good people of Freeside? What you're saying now is a close call to bluffing. And, is it because I'm a woman? I'll have you know I have a masculine energy about me. No disrespect intended." Actually, she did intend it, but people liked to hear 'no offense'.

"Well, we ain't never had a woman member, but that's not why you can't be a King. First of all, we usually only accept people native to the area. Second, I have to approve. And I don't. You haven't shown me you've got what it takes to be a King yet." _And that clown at the door does?_ "But if you're fixin' to join something fierce, stick around, and if you play your cards right, things might change."

Whatever. She didn't want to be a King anyhow. She was basically a Chairman in all but name at this point, for dishing out some thorough pest control on their premises.

"Fine. Turn away the coolest cat on the street. I was going to offer to talk to House for you, but I guess I just don't have the King's support. I guess the King doesn't like better security on his streets.." She said.

"I'm sorry, honey. You seem like a cool cat, but you just ain't done enough around here to be one of us." His face looked pitying, and she snickered at that.

The only time she needed pity was when she was getting something out of it. She did like the Kings' striped shirts, but it also made them look like sophisticated Powder Gangers. They could do much better than Powder Ganger-chic. So, she left the dance studio, and strolled down the streets of Freeside, where she'd been only about two weeks ago, before entering the Strip.

The place was a dump, and the smell was even worse, reminiscent of the crucified slaves on the hill up to the Fort. She doesn't think she could ever forget that smell, especially when she was standing in it again. How could anyone just let this place go to shit like this? Weakness, that's how. She didn't pity these people - they were small time, they didn't even try to make life better around here.

Beggars looked up at her approaching them, their beady eyes looking similar to the eyes of slaves back at the Legion's camp, only these beggars didn't serve any kind of purpose except starvation. She thought back again to the conversation she'd had with Caesar about Hegel's master-slave dialectic, and wondered if it actually would be a mercy on these people to enslave them. At least they'd have food, protection, and a place to stay. As it was, though, they had nothing in the way of comfort, motivation, or determination. They let this place fester, and it was their fault, not House's.

If there was something she was quickly learning about her employer, it was that he left the people to their own devices. He was forging a world where the resourceful and cunning survived, and nowhere was that more apparent than the outskirts of Vegas. So far, she hadn't met someone who was witless on the Strip. And while they weren't winning any intellectual races, they were sharp, even and especially the hookers. Hookers usually had a lot of willpower and guile, their job making such qualities a requirement from the get-go.

For instance, any one of these Freeside hookers could probably tell her more about the meaning of life than the Kings could. Sure, it'd probably be some static, survivalist explanation, but it would still be more compelling than any other Freeside native's explanation.

In one of the alleyways, she saw in her peripheral a thug squatting on the ground, shitting in the street. That would have to rank as one of the more grotesque things she'd seen in the Mojave since waking up. But she didn't blink or even pay it any mind - that was child's play in her eyes. She'd seen worse.

Up ahead, a man was perched over top a carpet on the sidewalk. Against his chest, he held a dilapidated guitar, which he was strumming to the tune of his own song. He was wearing a patchwork jacket, like it was once in good condition, but instead of throwing out, he kept sewing new and, admittedly, cool looking new patterns into it. He had long hair, greasy and unkempt, but his eyes were welcoming.

"Here's a cap for you." She said, taking a cap and putting it on the carpet underneath the guy. "Play something good, won't you? And not Marty Robbins, please."

"How's about one of those old world country musicians? From south-aways?" The man asked.

"Sure. But before that, what's your name and story? Drifter like you, playing guitar on the corner of a Freeside road, you gotta have a tragic story."

"Name's Hiram. For another two caps, I'll give you my story and a song, just for you, darlin'." His accent was kind of funny, nothing she'd ever heard before.

"I like how your mind works, Hiram. I'll donate three caps to the Hiram charity fund, just because you caught me in a generous mood today."

Pulling three caps out of her bag, she set them in a pile where she'd set her first cap. This guy seemed like he might be the most exciting interaction she'd have today, so she bent her knees down and sat on the carpet beside him, pulling her bag to her lap so it wouldn't get swiped.

"I'm from a long, long ways away from the Mojave. Ever heard of a place called the bayou?" He asked.

"I think I heard it in that 'jumbalaya' song on a record not too long ago. So, you're from that place? What's it like, Hiram?"

Curiosity ate away at her, seemingly ceaselessly. It was like an itch that couldn't be scratched, not even with one of those fancy back-scratchers she'd got a view of in her suite back at the Lucky 38. The feeling of collecting things, especially knowledge, held a close candle to academic and political debate, in her mind. Ironically enough, she wasn't that curious about where she came from, though. If she was delivering mail for a living, she must've fallen on hard times at some point, and that was no fun. Having a clean slate and a fresh, new start was more exciting.

"Southeast o' here. East o' Texas, if you know where that's at. Think they called it Louisiana back in the old days. Folks call it the bayou, where I'm from. Real swampy, if it wasn't inhospitable before the war, it's damn near impenetrable now, got no one to cut the trees down anymore. The swamps need to be tamed, and there ain't no one willin' to tame 'em anymore."

"That sounds like a big contrast to the Mojave. But it's down south, so it's hot, yeah?" She asked.

"Hot enough. Hotter than the Mojave, if you can believe it. Had to get outta there, after my folks turned ghoul. They's still down there, believe it or not. Disturbin' the lulus, probably."

"What the fuck's a lulu?" Sounded tribal to her.

"A ghost. That's what Creoles call 'em. They're all around down south. Don't believe me? I come this close to one once," He made a gesture with his free hand to show, "was like a floating ball of light, used to turn the gas lamps around town off and on at dark. Real spooky, darlin'."

"Oh yeah? Prove it." She said.

"Do I look like I got the tech to prove it? I'm playin' music in the middle of Freeside tryin' to make some caps. There's a world o' spirits around ya, lady. All you gotta do is open the door, but not too wide, ya hear?" His eyes were conspiratorially wide now, like he was sharing a valuable secret with her.

"I hear you, stranger things can be found out in the wastes, so I'm not keen on calling you a liar just yet. What kinda song did you have in mind, by the way? I take a lot of pride in not letting myself get tricked by smooth-talking drifters." She said.

"Let's see.. I can play creole, rock n roll, southwest folk.. you name it, I can play it."

"Hmm.." There was too much to choose from, there was always too much to choose from.

So she settled with creole folk, because she'd never heard of it before today! She wondered if it wasn't prudent to try and get him a gig in Vegas, his voice was rustic, smooth, would be a big hit with the ladies, if only he'd clean his hair a bit. Damn it, she needed more influence on the Strip so she could do this shit!

When all that was said and done, his smooth tones and artistic enthusiasm lost to the desperation he had for caps, she told him to look her up on the Strip, or that she'd find him again sometime. House was waiting for her, probably had a whole speech set out for her for her lack of punctuality.


	8. Part I, Chapter VIII: Murder, He Says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: So here is the final chapter of part one. I apologize for leaving this story untouched for a few months. I'd run out of inspiration to continue writing it. I'm someone who prefers quality over quantity, and I think readers deserve that. So, I'd rather leave a story unwritten for awhile then write uninteresting filler chapters just to update.
> 
> Some progression in the relationship between Eris and Mr. House occurs in this chapter, and I so adore writing scenes between these two self-proclaimed "geniuses". I'm sure he enjoys being challenged by someone who is as intellectually driven as he is, but he's not willing to admit that anytime soon, or probably ever (?...).
> 
> Anyways, thank you for being patient and thank you to anyone who has read, reviewed, or criticized. I enjoy writing and I enjoy giving others enjoyment from my writing.

_Finally found a fella, almost completely divine!_

_But his vocabulary is killing this romance of mine_

_We get into an intimate situation, and then begins this character's conversation:_

_He says 'murder!', he says every time we kiss!_

_Is this the language of love?_

_-"Murder He Says", by Dinah Shore_

* * *

Was there a humanity without humor? Surely not. Humor was the foundation of play of nearly all kind, and play was an integral part of man's development. Without play in his years of underdevelopment, he lacks the problem solving skills and finesse he will need in his later life. It is often said that children are purer than their developed counterparts, and perhaps this rings true, for the humor of children was much broader and more abstract than the adult man's. This is, in part, due to the unification of ego and self, to which there is no separation in children. In our adult lives, amusement is only allowed to manifest if the ego allows it to, and furthermore, certain kinds of comedy can only be accepted as amusing by the temperament of said ego. Humor, in the adult life, is recurrent because it allows for normally socially unaccepted ideas or behaviors to be relevant, and spoken about.

Or, so said Sigmund Freud, whose logic was _almost_ infallible.

Eris had her doubts that Mr. House was too amused right now, which must mean his ego is of the supremely harsh variety, since he almost always suppressed humor of any kind in his discussions. She'd made it back to his casino, with radiation sickness the first half of her trip, and he was now yelling about her punctuality! What hypocrisy, for his punctuality had been severely lacking when she got shot in the head back in Goodsprings. Though, he would've had a good excuse for it, considering it was many against one lone securitron..

"I took care of your bunker - practically bought a house and moved in. The house was irradiated, though, no wonder it took me this long to make it back!" She argued back.

"And so you use this as an excuse to stall, to lose yourself in the decadence of Vegas? Marvelous work ethic. Bravo." Came his retort.

"You know what? I'm starting a union, like I said before. It's going to be me and _Victor_. First of all, I need a raise _and_ insurance for having an employer who forces me to go into extremely dangerous work environments, where I practically slave my ass away just so I can come back and get yelled at by an angry monitor. Second, said employer sends me to a war camp where I become eye candy for a bunch of sex-starved soldiers. _What's next_?" She asks herself more than him.

"Weren't you listening? I've already informed you what your next task is." Was that House's attempt at humor again? Answering a rhetorical question? She'd laugh but it would ruin the performance, even if his humor was drier than the Mojave in summer. "'Slaving away'. You sound like many of the employees I had before the Great War. Employees that, might I add, were given numerous benefits for their sometimes harmful work environments. You're no different, though you seem to think that your situation somehow garners special treatment. You were shot in the head - I didn't strap a collar onto you."

"Wait, are you seriously comparing the old world to this world? Look around you! Your employees didn't have to walk around puddles of radioactive goo, they didn't have to fight nightkin and feral ghouls, and they didn't have to deal with a war tribe that enslaves and consumes everything it touches. You're living in the past, you know? Comparing everything to your decadent life before. Well, sorry to put an end to your reminiscing, but I thought you were supposed to be a long-range thinker, you said it yourself when listing benefits to your regime over Kimball and Caesar's."

Really, she was just trying to keep some kind of control over this discussion. House had made a good point when he mentioned giving benefits to his more endangered employees, and he _did_ give her a rather luxurious place to stay in Vegas. The confidence he had in his plans and in himself was excruciatingly confusing to Eris, and she wanted to see if his proverbial bubble could be busted, but he kept such a tight grip on his cards! Everyone had some kind of weak spot. And despite Mr. House being a computer messiah, he was no different than other men in this regard.

She just wanted to understand him and his agenda better, and the only way she knew how she could, was to openly disagree with and refute everything he said, even if it was in vain, since he was older and had a wealth of more knowledge and experience than her. But even if she lost this argument, she could still learn - which, technically, was still winning.

"Why move on to this issue _yet again_ , unless you are making an attempt to distract me from your obviously poorly constructed reason for disagreeing with my methods? We've been over this before, and it's a waste of time to go over it again. Time is a precious commodity, wouldn't you agree?" He remarked.

"Calling time a commodity would be implying that it is in some way replaceable. A commodity is a good that is traded, and can be replaced at any time by something more valuable. Therefore-" He interrupted her impatiently then.

"Therefore, I have given you the task of subverting the Boomers by any means available to you. That is the task I've given to you - the only task. Afterwards, we can argue over semantics, which you seem to make a habit of doing, perhaps because you can't refute any other points I have made?"

"C'mon, House! Give me a break here, I'm trying to learn from you. Stop taking yourself so damn seriously."

 _That_ much was valid - he took himself way too seriously for someone as old as he was. One might think he would've developed some kind of humility over the past two centuries, since he's observed the futility of man's earthly whims, but there was none of that. She wondered if he even saw himself as human at all, and was trying his hardest to be anything but human.

"I'll stop taking this seriously when the future of humankind is no longer on the edge of devouring itself - yet again." He said dismissively.

It was hard to argue against that, and she was somewhat thankful that there were people willing to take anything at all seriously, because she certainly couldn't. So far, everything that had happened since she'd woke up back in Goodsprings had been writing itself like the absurdist tragedies attributed to Shakespeare.

"That's all fine and good, the last thing I want to do is take away your freedom to micromanage everything around you. I need a break, though, and since you've pretty much surrendered in the last conversation, we can move on." She baited.

"Mark my words, Miss, this is not surrender, this is prioritization. Securing my victory at Hoover Dam is a higher priority than indulging your adolescent need for conflict." He said.

"Whatever, if it makes you feel better in the face of defeat, that's all that matters, I suppose." She shrugged her shoulders in the illusion of nonchalance, though truth be told, she was having more fun than she'd had in days. "Now, back to the _real_ important topic here. I had a question about inventory here at the '38."

"What did you have in mind?" He asked, returning to that disinterested tone that she imagined he would've used when talking about the weather, which was something she couldn't imagine him talking about.

"By any chance, would you have any books on or by Hegel?"

"Why?" _Ugh_. It was always going to be some kind of business deal with him, wasn't it?

"Aching curiosity and an insatiable hunger to learn, that's why. Do I need any other reasons? I'll treat your books with the utmost respect, like I do to you." She snarked.

"Very well, I suppose after what you accomplished for me in the Fort, I'll allow you to indulge scholarly curiosity. Go and find Jane, she'll retrieve any books you need from my study. As a forewarning, however, if you vandalize my property in any way, you _will_ pay for it. I have a rather large and priceless collection of volumes here, and to bring harm to any of them, is a violation of my property. Return any books you have to Jane, and in exchange, you can request more." He said.

That sounded fair. She had no intention of destroying any books though, what did he take her for? A barbarian? He was so fun to annoy though, that she considered bending some of the corners of his book's pages just enough to irritate him, though not enough to earn his ire.

She found Jane, the 'girl' bot that had creeped her out when she first came here. What exactly was its purpose? How did House justify this robot's existence? Surely, he didn't need to build robots in the images of women, unless he was a huger nerd than she first imagined. In fact, she could imagine that. He was in no way conventionally charming and he didn't seem to notice that his employer was a woman at all. She could see in her mind's eye an image of his intellect and wealth attracting countless women, and as soon as they got a whiff of his caustic and demanding side, they'd run for the hills.

Thinking even deeper now, she decided that, that must've been a lonely existence. Though really, it was no one's fault but his if he was going to be so uncompromising. It made her wonder if he had even had friends at all. _Surely_ , even if they were only there for his billions and the cotillions that pre-war tycoons threw.

"House said to come to you for any books I needed." Was all she said to the 'girl' bot, Jane.

"Certainly, sugar! Don't tell Mr. House I told you, but he was pleased as punch after what you did for him in that awful bunker!" Its accented voice sounded, causing Eris' stomach to roll a little.

"I'm sure he was. He's a ray of sunshine from what I've seen so far." Eris said, her voice now void of emotion. She didn't know exactly why, but this bot made her uncomfortable in a way that no other securitron had, to which she usually blissfully ignored them. "Now, can you get me those books or not? Preferably anything by Hegel, or that mentions Hegel. Think you can do that?"

"Of course! Mr. House has instructed my programming to do this for you. I'll be back in three shakes of a lamb's tail!"

She watched as its little metal body rolled away into one of the other sections of the Penthouse. When Jane returned, Eris was given a stack of well-kept books all centered around one topic: Hegel. Except there was one book that had nothing to do with Hegel at all. It was instead a manual on interpersonal relations between employers and employees. She sifted through the contents of the book and decided it was definitely not random that Jane selected this book from House's study.

The first thing she did was laugh at the absurdity of it. It was dense, extremely pedantic on gestures and postures that should be emulated while an employee speaks to his or her boss. Ultimately, she decided she'd read it - if only to do the exact opposite when dealing with her employer. It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that Mr. House had instructed Jane to give the manual to Eris, whether as a cleverly disguised, albeit corporate joke, or in seriousness, she left it up to the fates to decide.

"House, you should really open up a joke shop, because I'm not sure if you wanted this to be funny or not, but it's fucking hilarious. Absolutely priceless!" She announced, waving the manual around over her head.

All around her, the speakers where his voice usually sounded were silent, though she knew he'd heard her. For a moment, she wondered if he _was_ being serious, and if so, had he done the same for all his employees on the Strip? It was hard to imagine some smooth talking scoundrel like Benny reading a thick book on employer-employee relations and etiquette. Yes, she decided, it must be a joke on his end.

* * *

So she went back up to the suite, where she spent the next week lounging about, reading between the different books House had allowed her to read. Every 100 pages or so, she'd switch to another book, just to keep it stimulating. And every day, she would try, and usually fail, to discuss them with House. She needed his pre-war knowledge! She had to have it at some point.

But already, she could almost feel the tension dying a bit, his caustic tone still there, but more willing to have discussions with her. However, it really depended on the topic of the discussion. For instance, he _would_ talk about economics, pre-war America, robotics (which was a snoozer), and political strategy. What he wouldn't talk about were as follows: the White Gloves, his family, his wealth (he said it was private and inconsiderate to ask that), and the reason _why_ he became a roboticist.

Oh, and he particularly hated when she brought up the good things about General Atomics, and played devil's advocate for Legion ideals. Right now was one of these moments.

"Caesar uses Hegelian dialectics to excuse nearly everything he does. But is he wrong, really? As the foremost scholar on Hegel, I-"

"One week of reading Hegel, and you consider yourself a Hegelian scholar already? We have already gone over this, just yesterday, and I proved you incorrect then and I will prove that you are incorrect now! A society that is brought up with the acknowledgement that they are a slave, a utility of the state and nothing more, will only bring forward a generation of dimwits, who will accomplish nothing for humanity except stagnancy. Humanity relies far too much on evolution and progress to willfully resist such things and be successful!" He retorted.

"Just because your definition of success is progress doesn't mean everyone else's is. Suppose you are a simple farmer in the Mojave, and your definition of success is finding a wife and children. If you get both of these things, then according to your inner values, you are successful. All values are subjectively interpreted, and if a man's greatest ambition is to father children, then the Legion can provide that. Furthermore, in a society which devalues higher learning and technological know-how, the few geniuses, like Caesar, will stand out and be the most 'successful'. It's very probable that they'd be the idols of that civilization. Now, on the other hand, if you are a genius in NCR territory, which places an emphasis on freedom, individuality, and better education, the more intelligent will stand out less, and be less 'successful'. In fact, because there is so much information available to the public in a society like the NCR's, there's going to be _un_ intelligent people with just as much knowledge as the intelligent, meaning they can easily masquerade as being clever, when they aren't." She said, her hands wildly gesturing around her, attempting to convey her point.

"While you make a sound point concerning education of the unintelligent, you also make the unwise assumption, which I believe is in part due to your knowledge that I am pre-war, that I believe in any of the ideals of the NCR at all. You are right to assume the NCR threatens intelligent minds, because democracy encourages intellectual stagnation instead of erudition."

"Then, what _is_ your political beliefs? You're not exactly transparent about that, maybe that's why so many people distrust you. Maybe they think you're just another Caesar. And, really, history has had too many Caesar's for that to be special anymore." Her question was meant to cleverly mask the fact that she'd, much to her embarrassment, wrongly assumed he was a believer in democracy simply because he was old world. If he was as intelligent as she knew him to be, he'd see right through it.

"I am sure you are aware that I support the free market and its power to aid the ambitious and capable. What happens to the incapable, is none of my concern. That they are alive and protected is all that concerns me, their prosperity is out of my hands. Unlike the NCR, I do not believe in educating the imbecile, for he will never properly exploit his knowledge, and will instead parrot it uselessly, under the impression that he is intelligent because he has been told something and is capable of repeating it. And further, unlike Caesar's Legion, I do not believe in whipping them into submission, such a thing is barbaric and has no place in my vision of the future. They are free to be useless as they please, they will not be paving the road to the future, however."

"You mean to say, they will not even have an opportunity to prove their mettle?" She asked with conviction, though she felt undecided on the matter. House couldn't tell the difference between curiosity and attack, anyhow. She wondered briefly why he was always ready to rush to a defensive stance.

"By which means? If by 'proving their mettle', you mean shoveling dirt and providing menial labor, then of course. But if you should indicate their rights to operate my businesses and property, then they have none." Eris laughed, and afterwards, she could practically hear his eyebrow raising indignantly on the other side of the monitor.

"You already allowed an imbecile to run one of your businesses, or have we already forgotten about Benny? You have a frighteningly short memory, House. Or, you're so dismissive and selfish, that you don't even acknowledge that other people exist. Before you get on the defense, I'm not criticizing you, I have my own problems with working and playing well with others. But at least I'm aware of it." Truthfully, Eris wasn't sure why she was baiting him right now, maybe she felt a small amount of spite at the idea that when this conflict in the Mojave was settled, she would just be another name on his long list of employees. How boring, inconsiderate, and... conventional.

"Benny was a minor miscalculation, which I had several solutions for. Fortunately, you presented yourself at the most opportune time, a superbly mysterious card whom no one knew or suspected was in the palm of my hand. Nonetheless, I am not infallible nor have I ever proclaimed to be. Actually, I do not know why I am wasting time producing an excuse for you, I shouldn't have to do this, when you are my paid employee."

"Maybe I like the sound of your voice, or mine." She said, half-jokingly. The first part was untrue, the second part was also untrue, or so she suspected. She was never that self-aware, or at least she thought she wasn't. Either way, it would be a cold day in hell before she admitted seriously that she enjoyed talking to her employer.

"I think you have nothing better to do than waste my time, when you should be persuading the Boomers to join our cause. Miss, I believe you are stalling, a common occurrence with my employees of the past. Under the guise of being interested in my findings, they would attempt to avoid their duties.

"Oh, look at who's jumping to conclusions now! Do we need some padding to protect your fragile, old world limbs?" She chided, allowing a coy smile to grace her lips, her hands involuntarily landing on her hips.

"Enough!" For some unknowable reason, and oh, she would know if it was the last thing she knew, her last statement struck a nerve. So, the invisible hand of New Vegas was conscious of his physique? It sounded petty to her, for she thought the truly wisest of elderly individuals, like Robert House, would have accepted old age and its physical shortcomings. "I am terminating this conversation, and will attend to something vastly more important than your futile attempts at prodding my mind. Do your job, _courier_ , or I will find someone more obedient who will."

"Impossible!" Two could play this game, but only one of them was seriously offended, and it was House. "You are aware, that I am aware, of what game you're trying to play with the Mojave. And _no one_ else is privy to what we're doing, Caesar is somehow under the impression that I'm going to go through with killing you, Swank is a useful idiot, and from what I hear, you couldn't trust the Omertas as far as you could throw them. You said it yourself, as far as anyone knows, I come from nowhere and have no discernible or reasonable motive to help you, which is why you couldn't find anyone better to do this. Your threats are kind of baseless, just saying. Admit it, baby, you need me."

She lit a cigarette to hide the minor frustration she got from how easy it seemed for him to dismiss her. It was a painful reminder of how small she really was, and frankly, she didn't enjoy it one bit. Also, there was no small amount of fear at the thought of losing the opportunities she'd been given here by House. He had plenty of books, hot water, and occasionally stimulating conversation, when he wasn't being a grump like now. She'd detected a pattern in their interactions.

Nearly always, it went something like this: she approaches him, usually after reading the bare minimum of information to understand an idea, then engages him in a baiting question - usually about himself, which he answers as primly and straightforward as possible; then, she asks him why, and when he answers, she gives her 'opinion'. Afterwards, he becomes slightly defensive and attempts to deflect her questions with professionally veiled insults and condescension, and she waves it off and pretends not to care (usually, she doesn't care at all). They go back and forth for a few more minutes, and then she asks him something which he perceives to be a personal attack, and dismisses her promptly.

Normally, she'd get tired of the predictability, but there were barely any other predictable variables concerning House. Sometimes, he made attempts at humor that he knew only he would appreciate, and other times, he really did teach her something with no strings attached. Most definitely, he had the potential to be a good teacher if he wasn't so snarky and condescending. The passion that danced in his aristocratic voice when he spoke about a topic he was interested in was inspiring, if not a bit disappointing, because she could not understand that kind of passion and drive.

Suffice to say, he never answered her, and she would rather go back to the Fort than beg him to talk with her. He'd likely forget about it in the morning, or pretend he forgot about it. Surprisingly enough, most especially considering his near-daily threats to 'fire' her, he was quite forgiving. She had her doubts that this was from the bottom of his heart, more like it was a good business decision to forgive so that he didn't need to invest more time in tutoring a new protege. She liked to think she was beginning to understand him, but each time she was getting closer, he doubled the fortifications in his proverbial castle.

According to Hegel, though, she was the slave in this situation, which meant she was soon to be more knowledgeable than him, and he would depend on her rather than vice versa. She had it all figured out, see.

Eris had some errands to run before she left to risk her life at Nellis. She never carried too many caps on her, as she was sure the grimy denizens of Freeside were looking her up and down for the valuables, and she knew she'd be doing the same if she were in their place. A hundred caps, give or take a few, was around the maximum amount of caps she usually carried. It would be a rookie move to clang around with hundreds of caps like so many of these clowns do, they might as well write 'please mug me' on their foreheads. She was, of course, thinking about the King, and roughly the majority of the tourists and gamblers in New Vegas.

With a grimace at the rancid smell of Freeside, she stepped out of Mick & Ralph's, content with her smarmy bargaining skills. She was convinced that in at least one of her previous lives, she was a used car salesman, and in another, she was a philosopher, and lastly, in perhaps the most recent previous life, she was a circus clown.

Thoroughly accustomed to the lowlife, her grimace passed and soon the smell of jet canisters and urine melted into the background. That, combined with the sound of hookers selling their 'goods' and rats squeaking as they were chased by two boys, created an altogether singular and unique ambience. Her eyes roamed, looking for the guitar man she'd seen passing through here a few days ago, but he was nowhere to be found. He was probably shacked up in a different pile of garbage somewhere else, or maybe he found his forever home - the hard way.

After purchasing provisions for the week ahead on the road, she decided she'd pass the rest of the evening at The Tops after a bath at the '38. Her light hair was barely dry when she began searching for some evening wear, eager to surround herself with interesting people. The Presidential Suite had an abundance of prestigious evening gowns, all of which had tags on the neck with names that were probably well-known two centuries ago.

It was not her vanity that kept her searching, it was the many options available. Obviously, she'd need something short because she wasn't confident enough in her gracefulness for a long gown. After twenty minutes of deducing the most novel gown, she decided on the red velvet halter dress, which fell to a few inches below her thighs. It looked particularly tacky, but she doubted anyone else would have a dress like this in New Vegas. No, that brand of tackiness was rare and died with the poor souls who stayed in the Presidential Suite.

Donning Benny's suit jacket, her newest and most useful accessory (it had deep pockets _and_ it was a flamboyant pattern), she pocketed her cigarettes and flip lighter, leaving her Pip-Boy on the nightstand next to the bed she'd been living in. That piece of tech made her a target, and worst of all, made her look like a green vaultie.

"Ring-a-ding-ding, baby." She said, assessing herself in the mirror. She ignored that voice in the back of her head telling her it was creepy to emulate Benny, opting for stealing his phrases instead, because they were cool and unfamiliar, at least that's what she told herself.

She left the Lucky 38 without uttering another word to House, not that it was any of his business where she was going anyway. She'd let him lick his wounds, and leave him with some snarky remark that he could roll around in his mind while she was on the road. He seemed like the type to overthink.

Eris lit a cigarette as she entered The Tops, the air conditioning welcome after walking through the sweltering heat of the city, made worse by the multitude of crowds loitering in the streets. The sound of sleazy jazz met her ears, and she half-expected some dame in black to approach her like the noir genre cliche.

The crowd was gathered around a blackjack table, and slowly Eris slithered in between their bodies - clothed in faded cocktail dresses and dirty suits. They smelt strongly of liquor, defeat, and regret. It was a surprisingly pungent odor. The man playing was tall and dark-skinned, his hair braided in several cornrows. Immediately, she knew he was a slick talker, chatting up the ladies while beating the dealer at his own game. The ladies swooned at the attention they received from his shifting, dark eyes. Eris scoffed at the act they were putting up, as if this clown wasn't the ever-changing flavor of the day.

Swank shimmied up to her then, and she wondered who was watching the front desk. He leaned towards her and started speaking in hushed tones, drowned out by the crowd around them hollering at the stranger.

"An Omerta goon. On occasion, those finky snakes like to come up here and try to show the house up, try to assert their dominance like. There's another one too, that shady fink hanging around that table over there - the one wearin' sunglasses. If the Chairmen weren't so good at what we do, he'd'a swiped our tables clean."

"Oh yeah, he looks like a real piece of work. I'll go rub him out for you. Wait there and behold my handiwork." She whispered back, not sticking around to have someone's breath on her neck. She liked people, but she didn't like them _that_ much.

For the dramatic entrance and to keep herself busy while she thought of some kind of solution, she pulled out her flip lighter and lit another cigarette, tossing the butt of her old one in a tray nearby, then she approached the shady Omerta. He was tall, though lesser so than the guy with the crowd around him. She noticed that when he thought no one was looking, he picked at his teeth. A real charmer from way back, no doubt.

Learning the ropes of New Vegas was kind of a priority, and just then she realized she had lots of priorities all of a sudden. Understanding the dynamics of Vegas would be a cake walk, though, because she had an itching intuition that she was used to sordid politics and moneygrubbing. It came as naturally as breathing to her, though she had some inner conflict of the philosophical variety about it. So far, what she did know was the Chairmen were the most popular among the families who came to Vegas, probably because they didn't have hookers soliciting in front of their casino, and the Omertas were popular among sex tourists and desperate NCR troopers. She knew very little about the White Gloves, however.

"Come here often?" She began, startling the man, though it could've been for show.

"I.. might start coming now." He answered carefully, his eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses.

"Oh, and why's that, hotshot?" She asked coyly, inhaling deeply from her cigarette.

Normally, she might be only a little disgusted by someone's advances, but he was bluffing, and he knew she was too, for his eyes never softened and his voice did not deepen as men's usually did when their 'primate' needs were aroused. Like Benny. This guy held his cards a little closer than Benny did. But it didn't stop her from finding the inconsistency in the stitching of his suit jacket, something only a woman could find, likely. It was large enough to pack a bit of heat, there were probably some pins inside of the stitching to close it up, and for ease of access, he could easily rip it open with the need arose.

Fortunately, he didn't notice her eyeing it, and made an attempt at idle conversation.

"So, you're new in town? I've never seen your face before, and I deal in the profession of knowing faces. What's your name, miss?" He asked, taking a sip from his glass.

"You've never seen me before because, well, I'm not from here. I've never heard you talk before, and I deal in the profession of talking - wordsmithing and the like, see? From what I'm told, I bring important merchandise from point A to point B and get paid for it. Can you guess my name?"

"You're Eris, the courier who finished Benny, which I compliment you on. He's not popular with my people. But from what I hear, you've been doing more than courier work these days for Not-At-Home. I think I'm hearing the bell ring, but correct me if I'm wrong, miss."

"Yeah me and House are like two peas in a pod now. He falls, I bend over backwards. I get a cigarette out, he rushes to light it. See? I bet if I got angry at any of these cats in here, he'd call the securitrons on them. Just a snap of my fingers, that's how close House and I are, see." She said, knowing he couldn't call her bluff because no one in the city had eyes in the Lucky 38.

"That's pretty handy in a tight spot, and there's a lot of tight spots in Vegas, miss. But the point of a tight spot is its small size, and a securitron is too large to fit in most of them."

That was pretty bold, and the scoff that escaped her couldn't hold itself back. The man was surrounded by people who despised his tribe, not that she'd know anything of tribal warfare, though.

"Well, the point of a securitron's titanium casing is that it is impervious to little crevices, because it can turn little crevices into _large_ craters. You picking up what I'm laying down right now, Rick?"

"My name isn't Rick."

"I know."

"How could you have known that?"

"You don't look like a Rick. Rick's are smart enough to tailor their clothes properly."

As she was finishing that, she reached for the little, hidden pocket in his suit jacket and ripped it open, handling the 9mm that was inside.

"If you want to be like Rick, you'll come with me. Or you'll end up like Benny. Now, c'mon, don't make me live up to my namesake." She said, pointing the gun at his back. The Omerta sighed audibly, and she noticed that he gulped when he saw she was directing him toward the crowd that had gathered around his accomplice.

The crowd looked up when they saw the gun that was pointed at the man, their gazes and the Omerta playing blackjack lifting as she pushed the cat closer. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Swank cackling and whispering to another Chairman. Afterwards, she saw him spread out his arms in a faux welcoming gesture. The gesture didn't fit him, but maybe that was because she knew him to be soft and kind, a stark contrast to his predecessor.

"I hope there's a good reason you're flashin' that piece out on the floor, dollface. But from the look o' this fink, I'm guessing you do."

"I fancied a walk through the casino, and came upon this deadly creature prowling for the possessions of the good people around us. Good people, how do you feel about men like this? Creeps, thugs, thieves, there's a thousand names for them. But this one's got a special name before the others. He's an Omerta. An _armed_ Omerta in The Tops. Why, you ask? Well, why don't we ask him?" She announced, handing off the goon to Swank, letting the Chairmen take care of it.

 _If there is nothing interesting happening, then we must make it happen_ , she thought as she dragged from her newly lit cigarette, watching the scene play out before her.


	9. Part II, Chapter IX: Ain't That A Kick?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I kind of dread writing anything action-oriented, and because of that, I decided to skim over some of the action that takes place in the first part of this chapter. I tend to shy away from writing violence, not because I'm particularly biased against it, but I'm more skilled at writing dialogue and social interaction. So, I do apologize for any rookie errors in this chapter, it's just not my strong point. Hoover Dam will be ridiculously difficult for me if I haven't improved until then.
> 
> We are now on part two of 'DIA', and this first chapter entails Eris' meeting with the Boomers at Nellis. All those new people are likely pretty interesting to this curious, precocious girl, I imagine. But I doubt a character like Eris would enjoy being ordered around and sent to the bottom of a lake (literally) to gallivant, unless it was an order from Mr. House, because she could probably use it as leverage for later.
> 
> Also, the second half (more like 3/4) of this chapter includes Mr. House's perspective, and his seedy dealing with the Omertas.
> 
> I chose this song as a theme for this chapter, because it reminds me of psychosis somehow. Anytime it comes on in-game, it makes me feel like I'm falling deeper and deeper into primal chaos.

_How lucky can one guy be?_

_I kissed her and she kissed me_

_Like a fella once said, ain't that a kick in the head?_

_My head keeps spinning, I go to sleep and keep grinning_

_If this is just the beginning, my life is gonna be beautiful!_

_-_ Ain't That a Kick in the Head, Dean Martin

* * *

The vast majority of men and women fail to notice the subtle sounds in their environment. A machine or instrument is nearly always humming in the background, lowly or ear-piercingly. In effect, their use of the word silence was rendered redundant by the existence of these tiny noises constantly fighting to pollute the auditory peace around them. Silence was rare, and so very underappreciated. At all times, man cannot contain himself from turning a stereo on, lighting a fire, or humming. For him, not hearing the sounds of life are distressing and.. uncomfortable.

Eris was, for lack of a better word, _uncomfortable_. Despite embodying the stereotype of the 'action woman', she couldn't seem to find a philosophical or even self-preservative excuse for dodging howitzers. Like so many humans, she failed to notice or appreciate little background noises that allowed for the facade of silence, only noticing sound when it was loud or deafening. And if she didn't move through this field quick, she might be temporarily deaf. She was already a brain damage patient, she didn't need more tallies for disabilities, though she was certain House would go easy on her if she went deaf in service to him. He did mention employee benefits not too long ago. Maybe a raise could do?

No, a raise wouldn't do, because he knew she didn't care about wealth. Still, he _would_ verbally spar with her for this, and if she didn't hear repentance in his voice, she might just take a page out of Diogenes of Sinope's book. But that didn't work out either, because he never wrote a book.

 _BOOM_ _!_ she heard as she instinctively ducked. She scorned those who proudly boasted of their primate instincts, but now she could see how they had their uses. Were these cats ever going to let up? She felt like Jesus on the cross here, except she didn't really care much for the end result of her sacrifice.. Scratch that entire simile, because if she was Jesus, then House was God, and that didn't sit well with her. She always identified more with Greco-Roman heroes of legend anyway, they had a few more notches on their proverbial pistol. This must be the Boomers' idea of fun, and honestly, she couldn't blame them. Explosives looked incredibly fun for the experienced wastelander with a keen eye, but she was not experienced and she was not physically perceptive.

Little did Eris know that the party was just getting started, because about 3 sets of gunshots whirred past her head, followed by about five consecutive howitzer explosions. And of course, there was a minefield. She was thankful that she decided to wear khaki shorts instead of long pants, because all she needed to do was tiptoe around the minefield, all the while blowing the little blonde wisps that occasionally blocked her peripheral vision.

She would write a thesis about why howitzers should be deleted from the Wasteland, if she returned to Vegas. Then, she'd write an antithesis about how they're actually kind of exhilarating to avoid, because she was getting pretty mixed feelings about the whole thing. Of course, this all relied on _if_ she returned to Vegas whole, and not as little pool of blonde goo. But if she was being totally and completely honest, which was rare, she'd probably do this again in a heartbeat. Because speaking of heartbeats, hers was really pumping. Adrenaline could be an amazing high, so much more useful than alcohol or morphine, both of whom could get the party started but couldn't clean up the mess afterward - literally and figuratively.

After a few more moments of shrapnel and missed gunshots, finally there was a gate with barbed wiring lining the upper parts. Suddenly, the firing stopped and she assumed they may have realized their hard work may have been all for nought. She wasn't here for a fight, though that didn't sound like such a bad idea now that she considered it fully. Eris rolled her eyes at the antics of these people, impressed with the firepower but annoyed with the lack of civility.

A man stood at the wire gate, with some kind of energy gun readied on top of his shoulder. Eris wasn't an expert on weapons, so she assumed it was something pre-war military. She folded her arms at the silly looking man with the army hat on, and waited for him to either speak or take his shot. Quite frankly, she was tired of running.

"Hold it right there! Don't you move!" The man - boy - said, expecting her to take him seriously with such a stupid looking hat on his head.

Comically, she raised her hands and got on her knees, looking up at the boy, who didn't seem much older than her. She shrugged after a few moments of him gaping at her on the ground, looking at him quizzically. Like there was a glitch in his programming, he stuttered for a moment, but began talking.

"How the hell did you survive that bombardment?" He asked. She readied herself for some kind of witty reply, but found she had none.

"It's all in the movements, see. Dodge, run, dodge, sweat, scream, dodge, run. In no specific order, really. Can you tell me who the movers and shakers are here?" She asked.

"I'm not telling you anything, savage! Move a muscle, and I swear I'll blow you to pieces!" He yelled, his voice breaking slightly. She laughed, but didn't move - his gun was bigger than hers, after all.

"Go ahead then, if that's what makes your day. Or not, if you're too pussy."

He braced himself again, but still did nothing, gritting his teeth in a most weak display of intimidation. Even just one of House's rants would've scared the general populace more than this poor guy did. Actually, one of House's rants and the most scathing way he called you 'worthless' or 'useless' would be enough to cause even the Legion's fearsome legate to turn tail and run to the hills.

When nothing happened, she rolled her eyes and spoke up, breaking the now tense and annoying silence.

"Really, you have no logical reason to fear me. I didn't come here to attack you or any of your people. I came to talk. No strings attached." She said, then added lowly, "kind of."

The boy slouched a bit in relief, but straightened back up, saying, "Then just - just stay where you are! Raquel'll be here any second."

Eris waited for a few moments, now back on her feet and lighting up a cigarette, which may have been a foolish idea out in the middle of a minefield. But she wanted to be renowned for ideas - both foolish and genius, and so she continued on, inhaling deeply and blowing it sideways. The crunch of footsteps grew nearer, and it must've been Raquel. Raquel was looking worse for wear, like she'd rather be doing anything else. Of course, Eris would probably feel the same if she lived in a hokey place like this, isolated from the excitement of civilization and its fruits, both rotten and engorged.

"I'll take this from here." The older woman, Raquel, said to the young guard. Then, she turned to her. "I'm Raquel, Master-at-Arms for the Nellis homeland. Mother Pearl, our eldest, wishes to speak with you."

"Well, then. Mother Pearl's wish is my... _strong recommendation_." Eris replied, thinking she must've been the wittiest person out in the wastes.

Raquel crossed her arms and raised her chin, but otherwise her facial expression hadn't changed. A hint of a grin came up to Eris' face then at the sight of Raquel clearly unimpressed with her. What the hell was wrong with these people? They must really be suppressing their deepest and most hidden desires out here. She hypothesized that all these 'Boomers' secretly had an outsider fetish.

"Follow close, and mind your attitude." The older woman said, looking like she was about to frown but she already had a frown by default plastered on her face.

"I'll be on my best behavior, miss."

So she followed Raquel, taking in the sight of the Nellis base. It really was a sweet setup, and she could almost understand why the Boomers had a need for so much firepower. Although Eris lacked the mind for strategy that someone like Caesar or Mr. House possessed, she could easily see the tactical advantage a group like the Boomers had in this heavily fortified airforce base. They had the advantage of high ground, concrete and metal walls, and it looked like they also had power.

When Raquel led her to a little metal hut, Eris breathed in and sighed, maybe a bit dramatically. _The things I do for -_ she frowned slightly when she realized she didn't exactly know what she was doing this for. It seemed the reasons were changing constantly.

* * *

Robert House may have been many things during his time here, but impatient was not one of them. Years of plotting his return and the revival of the Las Vegas Strip had planted a seed of patience in him unlike anything else ever had before. Of course, in the past he'd had mortality and disease to worry about, and thus couldn't afford patience when he was gambling with borrowed time. Nearly everything he did, he did with precise timing and calculation.

He took almost no action on a whim, unlike his younger days when he'd occasionally give in to the excesses of Vegas and debauch, most especially when he was on edge about some patent or the public prying into his private life. Years of experience with shady deals involving degenerates not unlike the tribals now occupying his casinos and hotels, as well as military personnel, such as in the case of the American military mass purchasing his assaultrons and the request that he design Liberty Prime, left him quite practiced in the old world and the new.

So when the Omertas arrived at their usual meeting location with him on time, Robert knew something was at stake here. The securitron whose body Robert was now monitoring and speaking through rolled backwards, away from the door to allow the two Omertas in. Nero tipped his hat at his usual (yet undesirable) securitron form, and Big Sal smiled a crooked grin, sporting yellowed teeth as he greeted him. Robert sneered partially at the attempted display of civility, and partially at the rather blatant display of uncharacteristic friendliness. Robert trusted his calculations, yes, but alongside his calculations were his hunches which had so far served him usefully.

He observed them for a few moments, his still face luckily not giving away the disgust he had for these libertines. While Vegas thrived off of the vanity and gluttony of individuals, Robert had no love of partaking in it himself. The tourists of Vegas were useful tools to build a shining beacon among a sea of decay and stagnation, though. In an ideal world, that is, in the world which existed only inside of his head, men and women would be studied and more selective about when they allowed themselves to _disinhibit_. Self-discipline was the first, but only one of many, stepping stones to success, after all. And that was why these former tribals and tourists would always be small-time. Being both capricious and having no ability to see clearly the vision which was larger than themselves, this would likely always be their existence.

Finally, after a few moments, he spoke.

"Gentlemen. Please sit, if you would." His coldly polite voice filled the otherwise silence room.

"Mr. House. Always a pleasure to get a message from you. We came as soon as we could, at your convenience, of course." If he was currently corporeal, he would've rolled his eyes at the artless flattery.

Weren't these the former 'Slitherkin' who were so very well-known for their trickery? But perhaps... no. He would have plenty of time to calculate their chances of rebellion later. It was a tactless play to show any sign of suspicion.

"Of course." His tone conveyed nothing except professionalism, an art which was lost in this wasteland, so it seemed. "I went over your last report very thoroughly, and while I found no fault in thirty-four out of thirty-six of your family's purchases, there was one discrepancy that caught my eye. It seems that your family has been investing thousands of caps in _tapestries_. Does that sound correct?"

Nero and Big Sal shared a look that lasted less than a second, but the securitron's keen sensory devices was able to observe it. Remotely, Robert watched the moment over several times while the Omertas worked to form a response. He would analyze that in more depth later. The small, humorous part of him wanted to condescend about them smuggling humans out in sack cloths, but he doubted they were educated enough to understand that particular reference. Perhaps Caesar would?

Big Sal spoke up for Nero after a few seconds, "That sounds right, boss. We got a complicated client staying in one of our suites right now. He's a very discriminating customer. I'm sure you can understand."

Robert knew immediately that Big Sal was being truthful, but he still felt a strong hunch towards this particular truth having a nefarious twist. Using the truth to deceive would've been ironic for anyone except the Omertas. And while he was accustomed to dealing with their half-truths and underhanded methods of financial gain, this half-truth was different.

"If push comes to shove, you can have the guy looked into. You know, follow him around a little bit. But he's paying big caps to us for this suite, which means big caps for you. We'd hate to turn down a chance to profit, boss." Big Sal finished his hasty sentence with another of his crooked grins, and if there was any moment Robert wished for corporeality and youthfulness, if only to sneer, it was now.

"Who said anything about an investigation, Mr. Sal? I'd like to believe I am secure in my faith towards your ability to keep an eye on _your_ clientele. Or am I wrong in placing Gomorrah in your family's hands?" He asked, causing Big Sal to sit a bit straighter in his chair. Nero licked his lips, but said nothing, observing his right hand with something akin to hope.

Remaining blunt and only a touch hostile with the Omertas was prudent, for if he neglected to lay out his rules in a clear and concise manner, they would quickly weasel themselves into the nearest gray area, where they would nest and sprout seditious notions, like they were probably doing right now. There was no rule, after all, concerning a demanding client who had an obscure fondness for what must've surely been _hundreds_ of tapestries. There would be a rule, now.

"Not wrong at all, boss. We got everything under control. We'll tell him we can't abide by his tastes-"

"You'll do no such thing." Robert cut in. "Your contract doesn't involve you mingling in the affairs of clients unless there is a clear evidence of misconduct that can be proven by the contractor to me. I see nothing suspicious in his behavior, and I refuse to delve into what our clientele decorate their walls with. We don't delve into their private lives, Mr. Sal. Now unless you're illiterate, which regrettably for me, is a possibility, you know this. What I propose, instead, is a clear list of merchants you're purchasing from - a precise ledger. The numbers will tell me all I need to know without having to have an _unfortunate_ situation like what we're having here. Is that understood?"

Both Nero and Big Sal nodded, their expressions not telling of what they were really up to, but he would find out. Oh, he would, and whatever juvenile plot the Omertas were planning under his nose would be drawn out like poison from a pus-filled wound.

"Now, I assume the two of you are _aware_ of what a ledger is without my supervision?" Again, the two nodded, and he continued. "Very well. I expect a full list of purchases, sellers, and prices. At the end of every week, one of your men will deliver the ledger to one of the two securitrons guarding the doors to the Lucky 38. It's a Tuesday now, which means I will need the report on the Tuesday next. There will be no exceptions to this. I will calculate the numbers to verify if your purchases are legitimate. If I find they are not, you will _pay_ for it. And I do mean that literally - you will pay for the difference out of your own coffers."

"We wouldn't dream of crossing you this far into the game, Mr. House. How would that profit any of us? The notion makes me sick to my stomach. We've been pallies for awhile now, House. Relax. We'll take care of the situation, and you'll get your weekly ledger - no shady shit. Trust us." Nero finally spoke. If Robert could crook his brow properly, he would've surely done so just now. Normally, Nero let Big Sal take metaphorical bullets for him, which worked for the Omertas considering their primitive, tribal loyalty to one another.

"As my employee of nearly four years now, you should know that my preferred method of conducting business isn't in trust, but in numbers. Your attempt to win my trust is futile, at best. I only care about results, Mr. Nero. And results I shall have." He paused for a moment, making sure the message was there without raising suspicion about his suspicion. "Your contract is lenient but straightforward in its details, refer to it again if they've lost traction in your operations. Now, I think business is concluded. Report to my securitrons if you have any further questions. I will answer them all if it means I have _functional_ employees."

They left after saying their 'respects', and Robert left the securitron he was monitoring to its duties. Remotely, he surveyed the Strip and its entrance. Still, there was no sign of his newest, and thus far, most reliable, employee. She'd been gone for weeks now - three weeks, exactly. This was a week or so longer than he was comfortable with. He needed her back in Vegas by the end of the week if he were to make any progress on the Omertas.

Currently, he was working on a cerebral map of what direction the Omertas were going in with their little scheme. Perhaps they were deliberately acting suspicious so that it would raise his suspicions, forcing him to take action against something he perceived as misconduct when there was no misconduct involved, which violated his terms of their contract? No.. the Omertas were up to something more sinister than something that would amount to a small inconvenience for him. Although it was not within his rights to investigate their private dealings, he did have other means to accomplish his aims.

His calculations proved a 75% chance of illicit sexual trafficking, which was not an unusual number for the Omertas, so he ignored that one. Another, he found, proved a 42.7% chance of illicit drugging of clientele, which was as seedy and distasteful as the last, but again nothing he could do about. _For now_.

The most alarming of his calculations showed a 59.8% chance of arms purchases through a tribal vendor. This was exactly the information he needed to go forward with his plan. For too long, had the Omertas plotted behind his back, thinking he was none the wiser. Simply put, the former Slitherkin, much like their namesake, couldn't be allowed to walk ten feet without a leash securely tied around their necks.

Instinct informed him that their ludicrous purchasing of _tapestries_ was merely a cover for arms purchases, for there was no reality he was aware of where the value of cloth was equivalent to a machine gun. Textiles were an abundant commodity in this region.

It was nothing he was beaming about, however. Always, he had been a believer in the liberty of others, and to remove it brought him no joy. He was not a fascist tyrant, that title belonged to Caesar. Of course, this was _his_ city, and it was within _his_ liberties to govern what was allowed within. Out of his entire tribal workforce, the Omertas were the most demanding. They almost never took 'no' for an answer, often arguing to his face, or rather, monitor, openly, while conducting their affairs in the shadows. Their suddenly compliant behavior spoke volumes.

No matter, though. He was already drawing up a plan for catching them in their doubtlessly amateur scheme. He'd been doing this for centuries, now. Did they really think they could get one by on him?

His newest protege, Eris, was skilled with people, not that he'd inform her of his thoughts on that. She would never let him live it down. He'd watched her oust the Omerta spy in The Tops a few weeks ago, and the petty, tribal squabble that had occurred afterward. It was skillfully done, though it wasn't calculated or planned. It was an impulsive move on her end, probably a human need for stimulation, of that much he was sure, and that made him all the more puzzled about the different angles available for managing his employees.

Though usually disinterested in the lives of his employees, he did make exceptions for those of whom he allowed within such private spheres of his life and vision. Thus far, Eris was the first in well over 200 years, which made her anomalous. Even after her delivery of the Platinum Chip and subsequently, its delivery again to his bunker at Fortification Hill, he remained unsure of her loyalty. Of course, it would be simple to only care for the results as per usual with all of his employees, but this partnership between he and Eris was a high stakes game. If she made a move against him, it would be effortless to remove her from the game altogether, but removing her meant replacing her, and that simply wasn't an option in the foreseeable future.

Unforeseeable for two reasons: one, being that she was articulate enough to follow an outline of instructions while improvising with a level of ingenuity he hadn't seen in an employee in ages. Two, there was no one he could trust in Vegas with such private matters, and the nearest 'allies' he had were buried in the ruins of CIT, thousands of miles east of Vegas. How he loathed projects which required the labor of sentient beings. Working with his robots was so much safer and more predictable. There were too many variables in human behavior to accurately predict the outcome of their actions.

Alongside his plan for Eris to somehow infiltrate Gomorrah and find information about the Omertas that he needed, he would also need to keep an eye on Eris' behavior. She was argumentative and flamboyant at the best of times, and annoyingly pedantic at the worst of times. He needed to monitor her closely when she infiltrated the Omertas, lest she mistake joining them in whatever plan they had as wise. Countless individuals were lured into that den of vipers. He couldn't have his protege fall prey to them and ruin everything, delaying his centuries' worth of plans.

So, another week passed with nothing interesting occurring, without any sight of Eris, until Wednesday morning, when she finally swaggered through the Strip, thankfully making a beeline toward the '38. But to his supreme aggravation, went to her suite before reporting directly to him.


	10. Part II, Chapter X: The Lowdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sometimes, I feel like this fandom is dead, or maybe it's just that Fallout 4 appeals to a wider audience, and thus the Fallout 4 community is more active. It looks like new Fallout: New Vegas fics on here and AO3 are uncommon, but I hope to change that. This game really intensified my interest in the Fallout series, making me appreciate good story writing.
> 
> I hope my readers here are happy with the pace I've set with this story. Now that we're into part two of it, the mood is going to shift just a little bit. This part will definitely justify the 'crime' tick that I set for this story's genre. Some shady stuff is going to happen in this chapter and the next few to come. It's the first time I've attempted to write anything gritty or unsavory, so any criticism or praise is appreciated as I undertake this new challenge.
> 
> I really enjoy writing from Mr. House's perspective, but I do it so rarely in this story kind of as a treat for myself and others. I feel like Mr. House switches between futuristic sage and corporate executive all the time, and my aim is to capture that well, which I tried to do in chapter nine. Anyhow, the die is cast and Mr. House has planned for Eris to infiltrate the Omertas. You may have noticed that Mr. House has already begun referring to Eris as his protege (only in his head though, for now), I wonder if that could indicate a budding friendship between the two?
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

_Baby's into running round and hanging with the crowd_

_Putting your business and the street and talking out loud_

_Saying you bought her this and that and how much you done spent_

_I swear she must believe it's all heaven sent_

_Hey boy, you better bring the chick around_

_To the sad, sad truth - the dirty lowdown_

_-"Lowdown", Boz Scaggs_

* * *

According to popular belief, democracy was the most virtuous of politicking. Through his belief being considered, does man become validated superficially through this system. He is unaware that he is merely given the illusion of choice, as democratic candidates are invariably bureaucratic populists. It was also known that democracy involved far too many checks and balances on those in power for actions to be taken quickly against a threat to the state. Democracy relied on charisma and populism, and in practice did not promote efficiency or collective cooperation. More likely, it made its people divided among each other, squabbling over which populist candidate was more virtuous than the other.

While disliking democracy was a niche counterculture in the Mojave in 2281, its forefather was much older. Everything Eris thought about democracy was regurgitation of Socrates' ideas. Still, she remained neutral.. _mostly_. Her opinion on democracy was that it was mostly weak in the face of the kind of chaos Mr. House and Caesar were brewing. Mr. House had no love for democracy either, and it was possible it could be for rational reasons, but she preferred to think it was because he was far from being a populist. Eris had yet to meet someone as unpopular with the people as Mr. House was, but she doubted he cared. He was profoundly unsocial and immune to even the most polite criticism. Not that her criticism had been overly constructive.

Speaking of Mr. House, he'd somehow slipped a piece of paper underneath her suite's door during the night, a thought that immediately brought a beam of smugness to her face. As old as he was, he was still impatient. She wondered if he'd hand-delivered it, but a multitude of other, more likely possibilities branched out of that, all of them affirming that delivery by securitron was most likely. Her curiosity towards what he really looked like wasn't at its peak, for it was entirely possible that he was shy, but something told her that wasn't the whole story.

Picking up the note, she noticed that it was typed out by a computer, so it must've been a securitron bearing his message. Odd. Those annoying pieces of metal and human laziness were never that quiet, or maybe she was so tired after her walk back from Nellis that she'd failed to notice two-hundred pounds of metal sliding across the floor last night.

The note read:

_"Miss Eris, come to the penthouse at your earliest convenience. We have an important matter to discuss, not counting the current job I hope you've accomplished."_

She rolled her eyes at his uncompromisingly demanding method of speaking. He could've signed it with a smiley face, or even a _sincerely yours_ or a _Love, Mr._ _House_. The likelihood of that happening was slim to none, about as likely as a Freeside hooker giving a lesson on abstinence. Mr. House wouldn't be half as fun to annoy if he didn't take himself so seriously. His feathers were always asking to be ruffled, and sometimes he held them closely to his body, and those times were more rewarding when she managed to reach in and truly irritate the secretive man.

Imagining Mr. House, the stern and frankly unfriendly CEO of a pre-war corporation, furrowing his brow, lips thin, as he furiously told a securitron what to type to deliver her because of her tardiness was what maintained the silly smile on her face when she got in the elevator to get breakfast from the lounge. Simultaneously, she wondered why he was suddenly being fussier than usual. A slough of explanations floated by in her mind's eye, but none could cover this unexpected social call. He'd never done that before.

If this was the beginning of another dangerous job, she would tell him she needed more books than he allowed her from his private library. She'd treated them all well so far, not daring to bring them with her on her road trips. Besides, she wanted to read some books about pre-war America, Hegel was now old news.

After finishing her breakfast, which consisted of surprisingly well-preserved oatmeal, she sipped black coffee, pulling a cringe at the bitter taste, which was so strong she was surprised it didn't climb up out of her mug and start walking. The '38 had preserved amenities like nowhere else she'd seen, not that she cared too much for material luxuries.

Eris kept her night clothes on, which consisted of some cotton shorts and a tank top, not bothering to change up in her suite, since House was in such a 'hurry'. Maybe she could bait him into commenting on her appearance, but so far he'd had way too much propriety to say anything like that without her prompting him. Usually, all she got was a scoff and a curt dismissal, maybe he'd even call her classless, which was a real treat.

Jane's monitor met her when she arrived in the penthouse, much to her dissatisfaction. It was easy to ignore, though, because robots were like flies on a wall that their human masters spoke through, their importance minimal unless they were a vessel for a human.

"I got your social call, House! I came at my earliest convenience, like you asked. But, I was surprised and only a little disappointed when I found that you hadn't set up a steak dinner with cocktails. I thought your type was supposed to be classy. Looks like I'm not the only one who's classless around here. You really know how to make a woman feel wanted." She announced, cocking a tiny grin in the corner of her mouth when she watched his smug countenance appear in the monitor.

"I deemed your presence here to be urgent. There was no time for formalities, I'm afraid." She snorted at his response, unsure if he was imposing his gravitas willfully or if he took her teasing literally. Probably both. "I assume that since you're here, and don't seem to be in any hurry, you were successful with persuading the Boomers to our cause?"

"Oh yeah. The Boomers are now members of your slave army, courtesy of yours truly. They owe us that much after I dove head first into Lake Mead to find some rickety, old aircraft. You should've seen the looks on those lakelurks' faces when a fucking airplane floated itself out of the waters. It was almost biblical, if it wasn't a tasteless piece of rusted metal."

"I see.." Came his reply, clearly unprepared and awkward as always anytime the threat of sharing personal experiences arose. She wanted to call him an egghead, but she'd likely get to the excitement in a few minutes, after he was done. "Well, I must congratulate you on completing this task. I won't ask how you were able to maneuver through the area around Nellis-"

"Why not? Don't you want to hear the story?" She interrupted him mid-sentence, earning her an indignant scoff.

"No. My concerns are with the task's completion, and nothing more. Although now that the Boomers' firepower belongs to us, we may have a singular advantage when the Battle of Hoover Dam bares its jaws at us. Jane will deliver your payment on your way out. Now, for the urgent business, which won't have you straying too far this time. It concerns the Omertas, and their den of biblical vice, Gomorrah. As the Battle for Hoover Dam looms nearer, my concerns about the Omertas have grown."

She interrupted once again, "What kind of concerns?"

"Let me finish. This is the second time you've interrupted me in the past two minutes alone. Wait your turn, and I'll sate any curiosity you might have. If it's relevant, of course."

In a mock of impatience, she lit a cigarette with the flip lighter that she must've left last time she was here. She kept finding them all over the place, never being able to hold onto the same one for long. The first smoke of the day was always a relief, and the best companion to a book whose subject was her current obsession of the week.

"Concerning the Omertas, I've never expected loyalty, mind you. A consistently underhanded tribe is just as constant to deal with as one that consistently conducts their business honorably. But that's just it - lately the Omertas' cooperative silence has been deafening. Not a single complaint in the past month? They're up to something."

The Omertas were a convenient scapegoat for the average citizen of Vegas, that much she was aware of, but so far the validity of their victimhood status went unconfirmed by her. Having never been to Gomorrah, she rationally deduced that the interior must've been more libertine than the exterior, and the exterior didn't leave much to the imagination. And if House was going down the train of thought she believed he was, then he wanted her to investigate the Omertas - maybe. But why couldn't House investigate it himself? She knew he had cameras practically decorating the Vegas Strip.

But if this is what she had to do to find some kind of stimulation in between knowledge absorption and amateur psychoanalyzing, then this is what she would do. Mr. House would need to start indulging her subtle request for debate, and the subsequent lectures, that came afterward.

"Is this your clever way to prompt me to offer help, so that in the unfortunate scenario that I complain about the job, you can say that I volunteered?" She placed one hand cheekily on her hip, while the other held the cigarette, which was now down to its half life.

"As your employer, it is my prerogative to assign you a given task, not to wait for your approval." Every time she got closer to cracking the puzzle that was her employer, the puzzle itself expanded, turning a 100-piece puzzle into a 1,000-piece. Very exciting.

"Yes yes, House. I'm just giving you a hard time, no need to take yourself so damn seriously." She said, stomping the cigarette out, effectively suffocating it.

"When the future of Vegas, the city I built, is no longer at stake, maybe I'll take your thoroughly unsound advice into consideration." He said, then sighed dramatically, reminding her of herself for a moment, _a moment_. "Suffice to say, the contract I have with the Omertas does not permit me to _directly_ interfere with their private affairs outside of the monthly allowance I give them. That's all you need to know about that. This is why I need you on the ground there. Find out what they're up to, and abort it while it's in its cradle."

"So I guess you support abortion? There are several groups in the Mojave alone who would disagree with you." She replied offhandedly, gearing up for an argument. Her time at Nellis was surprisingly, and much to her extreme boredom, free of conflict.

"For the most part, it matters little if they agree with me or not. The residents of Vegas make their life in _my_ city. It is safe to say I know best how to direct it." Eris thought to herself that in the event that annoying Mr. House no longer brought any fun, the Mojave would also turn into some kind of rainforest. Highly unlikely. His proverbial (and literal) buttons were so easy to push, and there were so many she probably still didn't know about.

"I disagree with that, actually. A fresh perspective on _your_ city could be enlightening for you. I'm sure Caesar also thinks he knows best how to direct it, or even General Oliver. They all think they know how best to do it, but it's the product that matters. So far, you haven't shown me your leadership capabilities, and I say this constructively. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're not tyrannically massacring a bunch of poor people like you probably want to, but I've yet to see you prove to me how qualified you are." There was something to be said about tautology, and how difficult it was to pull off, and sometimes, how _easy_ it was to pull off without anyone else noticing.

"Do you really deem me stupid enough to show my hand when it's still this early in the game? It's fools like Caesar who lose, for they care too much about the appearance of strength. You'll find I care very little for appearances, and this is why I will inherit the dam. Furthermore, I counsel you to stop speaking with authority on matters you know very little about. Have I ever divulged to you that mass murdering the less fortunate had any part in my vision? No? I thought not. As my employee, you are not authorized to pry into my personal life and its details. You may have more privileges than I allow the others under my employ, but don't forget your place. I don't take being compared to a tyrant lightly!" His loud, furious voice boomed around her, causing her to cover her mouth while she laughed at the outburst.

Eris had a problem, she knew it. Although not the most self aware, she wasn't daft. It was easy for her to get underneath others' skin, it just happened naturally. She reminded even herself of an annoying little fly that just wouldn't stop buzzing in front of someone's face. Except what made her different from most flies was that vinegar attracted her just as much as sugars.

"Is something funny?" He asked, his aristocratic accent full of righteous indignation. The flood gates released then, and the hand covering her mouth could no longer muffle the guffawing. "I will not be made a fool of in my own residence!"

"S-sorry, Mr. House. It's just that-" She caught her breath again, coughing a little afterward. Damned cigarettes. "It's been over four weeks since I was here last. Which means four weeks without having anyone intelligent to speak with. Someone intelligent usually implies someone interesting enough for me to tease, okay? You should feel flattered. All these people want my attention, you see? You're getting it right now."

No, there wasn't anyone asking for her attention, but there was an opening to make herself sound more important than she actually was, and no one was immune to flattery, right? House seemed to have a high opinion of himself, and stroking his ego right now might be the solution to a problem that could've arisen down the line. Plus, she was kind of running out of options.

"Fine, you win." She conceded, huffing and crossing her arms at his silence before.

"I expected nothing less. Because I'm not a tyrant, I will leave this small disagreement behind us." He replied, sounding minutely relieved. Her brow raised at that, confused at this sudden change. Though, she imagined it was another psychological trick of his, similar to when he referred to them as 'our' when he talked about his plans, like she was part of the collective.

"I thought you implied you had nothing to prove to me." She couldn't help but say it, and immediately bit her lip afterwards, cringing at what she was about to say, "Okay, you're right. Let's move on for now."

"You may find that this task will require a deal more delicacy than the others. Violence will not be permitted within these city gates unless I deem it necessary. I will have you report back every suspicious detail you pick up in Gomorrah - within reason, of course. While the Omertas there are fanatically loyal to one another, there is one degenerate among them that I know of. In exchange for payment, the receptionist at Gomorrah gave me whispers of what was going on there. A few months ago, she clammed up. Odds are that she's scared, but I've had no opportunity to approach her. Start with her."

"And, once I'm inside, how can you assure me that I won't be a blonde pile of goo on the floor within a minute? They know I work for you, so what do I tell them?" She asked.

"I'm letting you take liberties with those details. Tell them whatever you need to. You're resourceful enough to find a way. So _find_ it."

Okay, this happened to be one, just one, thing she _did_ enjoy about Mr. House, and that was him giving her creative liberty to solve problems. She was almost positive that he would've let assassinating the Boomers' leaders fly under the radar as long as she got the job done. As someone who cared about the _hows_ , and especially how creative one could get with them, it wasn't so bad to work for someone who didn't care about it.

But _how_ to infiltrate the Omertas? Eris wished she could say she was familiar with the dynamics of Vegas by now, but she was only familiar with Swank and his boys, and that was pushing it, because between House and his demands, she didn't have much leisure time to spend here, and constant grilling of the residents would only make her look suspicious, she might as well put 'I work for Mr. House' on her forehead. She supposed she could ask House for more details, but she was uncertain if he knew either, since no one seemed to be really personal with him.

"House? You still there?" She asked suddenly, unaware of how long she'd been standing in front of the monitor thinking of how to go about grand espionage.

"I assume since you're standing here gawking, you have questions?"

"Nice, answering a question with a question. And I don't _gawk_ , I stare, listlessly. I'm a brain damage patient, you know? I could file a discrimination report on you to the board of... corporate abuse, or whatever beacon of materialism still stands in these trying times. _But_ , before you attack me on the basis that I am indeed a mentally disabled person, I did want to ask some things about the Omertas, if I'm going to be getting cozy with them, I want to know everything you can tell me. Don't leave anything out." She said, then added a sly, "please", with a wink.

"As you're well aware, the Omertas were once a fearsome tribe that called themselves the 'Slitherkin', and their most profitable capital was through human trafficking. Due to our contract, that barbaric practice is not allowed within the walls of Vegas, though I am quite sure they've found loopholes. As I said before, they are reliably underhanded, a trait I can admire, so long as it doesn't intrude on my own affairs. Many of the _show girls_ you'll find on the Strip's streets are affiliated with the Omertas, and I've always found, through surveillance, they're keen on taking alternative methods of payment, as their addiction demands it.."

The implications were not lost on her this time, and it didn't surprise her that Gomorrah's hookers were chem addicts, there was no way anyone sober had the willpower it took to lay some of the clowns that showed up in the Strip. If Eris learned anything during her time here, chems were as valuable as caps in most circumstances. Acquiring them without being trafficked was a problem, though, and she'd need to head to some of the sketchy corners of Freeside, so as to avoid finding the Omertas' suppliers and accidentally crossing them.

A plan was forming, though she was never that good at following a plan linearly. It was there, though, and maybe it would work.

"One more thing, or maybe two, depending on how you answer this one." She said. House's silence told her he was waiting, never one to waste breath on validation that he was listening. "Do you know who supplies the Omertas' chems?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't tell you, even if I did know. Suffice to say, I'm sure they're reaping the benefits of whatever plot the Omertas are forming, comfortable in their _yurts_."

Damn, he really was desperate now if he was looking for loopholes in the contract to give her dirt on the Omertas. The Khans dwelt in yurts, everyone knew that, and everyone knew they were some of the biggest suppliers in the Mojave, but would the Omertas really be that easy to track? Not that she was going to the Khans anytime soon, this reinforced that she wouldn't go near any of the Khans if there was any chance the Omertas had the same idea. The last thing she wanted to do was give herself away so early in the game.

Unfortunately, at least two Omertas knew her face, which was actually a huge setback. Sometimes, she hated her mouth and how she couldn't resist opening it at the most inopportune moments.

"Second and last question, I promise. Got any wigs?" She asked, crossing her arms and leaning back on the railing, suddenly she had the urge to sit down and think about all the possible ways this scheme could end, most of them ending in her death, or worse, her captivity.

"I've given you the entirety of the presidential suite. If you can't find what you need there, I'm sure you'll find one elsewhere. You've proven your resourcefulness already."

Always, he gave compliments in such an underhanded way. Only if he was simultaneously insulting or denying her requests, did he actually compliment anything she did. It would've been funny, if it were more helpful. As it was, she was alone in this, and though she was sure House would trade information for dirt on the Omertas, she was actually a little nervous about this job. She wasn't skilled at subtlety, her cunning was a little more hot-blooded than that. But the nervousness was a good feeling, and this gave her a real opportunity to learn more about how this city's underground worked.

* * *

After a few hours of milling about in her suite, Eris got dressed for a night out, and tonight she thought she might give Swank and his boys a visit and see what they knew about the Omertas, and if her anonymity with the family still remained. If so, that made the job a lot easier. She knew from past experience that following plans wasn't a good idea for her, and keeping an open mind was key.

The next hour was spent smoking cigarettes and reading some pamphlets about Vegas, old pieces of flashy papers that somehow endured. She'd learned that there was once a resort here called 'Caesar's Palace', and she'd found the architecture to be interesting yet found herself wondering what exactly happened to the marvel. It was another thing she would need to ask House about, since he was quickly becoming the answerer of all her questions, and she had _a lot_ of questions. An old record was playing on repeat in the corner of her room, something by Elvis Presley, but she wasn't paying much attention to it.

Yet again, she found her attention drawn to all the clothes left behind in the presidential suite. There was old world lingerie, gaudy yet somehow pleasing in its impractical laces, dresses and finely tailored suits, and more shoes than she'd ever seen. For a moment, she allowed herself to wonder what the other floors of the 38 held, and maybe House would let her check it out sometime, if she was a good girl. _That_ thought had her laughing out loud to herself, imagining her stoic, holier-than-thou employer telling her she was a good little worker, and decided she _never_ wanted to hear that patronizing tone from him. Maybe she had daddy issues, it was impossible to know really, since she didn't even know her own name or if she had any family at all, and was thus far content with it staying that way. All she knew was that for some reason, a reason she'd need to properly analyze at one point, she didn't like the idea of being like some kind of pet to House.

She imagined that this was a rarity, so many women, and even some men, would immediately trade places with her in the hopes of being doted on by the ever mysterious Mr. House. _That's assuming he's doted on anyone in his entire_ _life_ , she thought to herself. In her mind, he was a brilliant, yet socially inept egghead that lacked the kind of social graces one needed to have real friends. Not that she could judge much, she didn't really have anyone either. She wondered if that would ever bother her, but she doubted it, there were always more people to fill in for the ones that weren't there. Those were the kind of lessons she'd gleaned from Machiavelli's 'Prince' awhile back, and while doubtful of some of his methods, he was right when he said the common folk were either unaware that they were being used, or blissful at the idea of their usefulness, which was a downright revolting idea to her, though again, she wasn't sure why.

The prospect of openly using others was also a little concerning, for so many people did it, and the last thing she wanted was to be conventional. Though really, how could one avoid it if every single human interaction involved some kind of manipulation on either side? That was a matter of semantics, however, something she'd found no one really liked to ponder, and others, like House, thought it was completely useless to ponder on how something is said rather than what exactly is said.

It was getting late, and she'd procrastinated enough. If she was going to make any progress with the Omertas at all, there'd need to be a change to her schedule, and soon. It wouldn't do to have her be seen entering the 38 after every night she went to Gomorrah. So she got dressed in a short, navy halter dress, laughing to herself upon realizing she was probably wearing the priceless couture of whatever upper class gentlemen's wives House entertained in the 38 a couple centuries ago. She wouldn't look much different from the other women on the Strip though, you'd have to look pretty closely to see that this dress wasn't scavved from outer Vegas a hundred years ago. Her Pip-Boy was left on the nightstand next to her bed, and she cozied herself up in Benny's jacket, a relic whose symbolism was too fresh that she couldn't quite shake it off yet.

Upon reaching the casino, she made sure her cigarettes and lighter were in the jacket's pocket, and headed out of the 38 without looking behind her. She wasn't fucking around with just anyone, these were the Omertas, and she would assume the worst from them before she would push down any notions that maybe they'd changed their ways. She'd heard nothing but bad about them ever since she came to Vegas. And besides, people didn't change, and it had only been a few years since they were 'domesticated' by her employer.

It was dark outside already, the sound of sleazy jazz met her ears, along with the smell of booze and the sight of staggering drunks looking to impress the hookers advertising their wares. That same hooker she'd met on one of her first nights here was hanging on the sidewalk, looking for a customer. Maybe the crossdresser would be more helpful than Swank? He'd definitely know more than Swank, actually, so she decided to throw in her lot with him. A coy smile came to her lips as she sauntered up to the strangely attractive, androgynous hooker, whose name escaped her, probably because she hadn't asked.

Eris had about fifty caps on her, not enough for much, but maybe enough for a few drinks and a rather interesting conversation with the man. His greedy eyes soaked her in as she approached, and he wet his lips before walking towards her. Tonight, he was dressed in less revealing attire than the last time she'd been paying attention enough to see him. Rather than dark leathers and straps, there was a short, red dress and heels, and he did nothing to hide the bulge that revealed his true identity underneath the dress. It was his boldness that impressed her, lesser so the gaudiness in how he dressed, for that mattered very little. The desperation he must've had to dress like so and rely on the wicked desires of others to fuel both his habits and pockets was intriguing, but not saddening, for she had no doubt he'd chosen this lifestyle, and if not, the gate was only a few steps away.

"Hey baby, I see you couldn't get enough of me last time?" He said, his voice light and high-pitched.

"There was no last time, you tease, or maybe I'm just so forgettable that you mistook me for one of the others?" She replied, looking the hooker up and down in a way that would've been analytical, if she wasn't intending for it to be amicable.

"I could forget the hundreds of men in my life in the blink of an eye, but you? No price is high enough, baby.." He said, twirling his long hair between his fingers effeminately, "Besides.. I don't get pretty girls like you coming to me enough."

"You think you could take us somewhere tonight, just you and me, no strings attached, for a good time? No afternoon delights, nothing like that. Let's just get to know one another, yeah?" Eris pressed, willing to beg if necessary. Her disturbing lack of ego knew no bounds.

The hooker's eyes narrowed. Eris beamed again at the knowledge that this man was shrewd, probably on the lookout for any implications in her words. She was prepared to deliver the caps, even though she was presently running dry, thanks to the poorly planned arrangement she had with House and his library. Still, she had a few hundred she was keeping up in her suite, and didn't mind making the trip back up there at some point to make good on paying the man. Finally, he breathed a heavy sigh, and his narrowed eyes reverted back to their seductive, lidded quality he was sporting before. His head tilted to the side, and hers unconsciously did the same, observing his body language and attempting to mimic it.

"That depends, honey. How much am I worth to you?"

Eris realized then that she'd never done this before. Combing through memories and _feelings_ suppressed by her amnesia helped her only at certain times, though she had no real inclination as to what she'd normally do, maybe because she'd never really done it. Excitement filled her at the prospect of this novel feeling, propositioning a hooker in the early night, what would be a seedy affair to others was really just a ruse to knock the Omertas, a gang she knew very little of, down a peg or two. It was a feeling she was liking, if the anticipation thrumming inside of her body was any indication.

"You? Gee, you're worth only the entirety of my wealth, but before we share any of _that_ , I've got fifty caps here in my pockets just lying dormant, lonely, and unused, for a dame like you to shine her light on a nobody like me. Prior to seeing you out here, I'd planned on drinking my sorrows away, maybe betting on some games of makeshift hacky-sack in Freeside? You ever seen some kid use a ball of copper wiring to play hacky-sack with?"

"'Fraid not.. sounds like a terribly boring evening if you ask me, sugar. You'll be glad you came, that, I can promise you."

"Woah, woah, don't go promising before you deliver, baby. What's your name again?" Eris asked, keenly observing the body language of the man, hoping she wasn't about to get swindled. While obviously shrewd and discerning, the hooker didn't seem to be malicious, though there was a sexual predator in everyone, she guessed.

"Layla, but I can be anyone you need me to be, for the right price, of course." His voice was saccharine, though the low notes of masculinity still seeped into it from time to time.

"You'll find that yours truly is a generous patron, Layla." Eris crept forward, taking Layla's hand and placing it into her own before moving it to her jacket's pocket. To anyone else, it would've looked like an amorous exchange, but she wanted the hooker to know she had the payment tonight.

And if she got her way, she'd be able to pay him in not only caps, but chems too, which she was still trying to figure out. Layla's brows rose minutely, before baring her lips in a sly smile, the dark lipstick there revealing clean teeth, but gums that had an unhealthy color to them, most likely from repeated chem use. She wondered what kind of cocktails Layla enjoyed, now accepting this as a challenge as to how well she could play with people. Debating them and setting their teeth on edge was one thing, charming was something entirely different. She put little thought into it usually, effortless glib and tautology carrying her into a half-earned success. It truly was a mystery how she could somehow put so little effort into something yet still get a reward.

Layla slinked up to her, his perfumed arm going over her shoulder as he led her into the Gomorrah. Eris leaned into it, not having the proper boundaries, be it physical or otherwise, to resist. She was sure that even if Layla had no Omerta-flavored dirt to offer her, she could still learn a thing or two about the workings of the city, and learning was one of her top priorities, as always. 


	11. Part II, Chapter XI: Moonlight Feels Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose just about the sleaziest song from the 70s for this chapter, and I think it speaks for itself. I don’t plan on Eris being some kind of floozy, though, but I think she enjoys spending time with prostitutes, she seems the type that would find them to be good conversation. 
> 
> This chapter will mostly revolve around our protagonist spending time in Gomorrah. Some readers may be sensitive to the nonchalant way in which prostitution is discussed. Remember, these are prostitutes in post-apocalyptic Vegas – they’ve seen it all. And Eris? She likes to listen to the stories of others.

_We'll lay back and observe the constellations  
And watch the moon smilin' bright  
I'll play the radio on southern stations  
'Cause southern belles are hell at night _

_-"Moonlight Feels Right", by Starbuck_

* * *

For as long as pockets of man have established themselves as high cultures, there has been a profound repression of his most intimate desires. In the infancy of said high culture's lifespan, he embraces his desires, and when the 'culture organism' finds its spiritual calling, he gradually begins to repress such desires and deliberately separates himself from his other half, woman. Only when he finds that his culture's lifespan depends on his other half, does he finally learn to accept her once again. But this is folly, for man doesn't have the willpower to accept woman in healthy measures. Man can only appreciate woman in excess, otherwise, he loathes her for reminding him that not so long ago, he was a mere animal, incapable of resisting primy whims. Because of this, it is easy to digest that woman is a creature who exists solely to test man's willpower.

And that would be just like them, Eris believed. That idea was feasible, but it implied that men and women didn't exist in concordance with one another. Men were crass and pragmatic, women were soft and languorous. Evidently though, there existed exceptions to those rules. She was fine with exceptions, though. Things were so much more boring when they were streamlined and placed into neat little generalizations.

The Gomorrah was dark inside, its casino area had dark walls with gaudy, black decorations on the walls, and there were fires lit in the wall scones, the place looked like a den of lechery, and she had to physically resist making biblical puns. Layla led her into one of the backrooms, his long, thin fingers holding her forearm in the gentlest way a man could. Smooth jazz played from the speakers which were conveniently placed in the corners of the tall ceiling. Said tunes Eris hadn't heard before on the radio yet, but she thought she liked the sound of it echoing from the four corners of this dingy place masquerading as a refined brothel.

Men in striped suits and fedoras talked under their breath to each other, eyeing the women from underneath the brim of their faded hats. She felt eyes on her as she passed through the casino, and she met them boldly. Slinking around this place would likely only serve to fuel their suspicion, and a tribe like the Omertas would catch that fast, or maybe she was overestimating them. The majority of them probably weren't even literate, but she knew that there were different kinds of intelligence besides academia. That these suited men were able to pull off a scheme right under House's nose was impressive enough for her, but that didn't mean much. She was easily impressed by wasteland ingenuity.

Additionally, they weren't too successful with their scheme considering House had gotten wind of it. She wondered briefly if maybe House had studied psychoanalysis at some point and was holding out on her. These past couple months had her convinced he had a wealth of pre-war knowledge just waiting for her to get her hands on, and not just economic theory or corporate management. It was easy to forget that he was also a robotics genius, since he barely regarded them when he spoke to her. And as much as he talked about his mathematical deductions regarding prediction, she knew he had some mathematical know-how too, but that sounded like one boring lecture. People were more interesting than numbers to Eris, numbers were far too one-dimensional and orderly for her.

"I take it you've never been back here, baby?" Layla asked, though it was more of an observation than a question.

Eris took a drag from the cigarette she'd lit a few moments prior. They stood now in a slightly emptier room than the lobby she'd just been in. There were too many new things, she couldn't just focus on her job. Besides, her job had her playing spy in this brothel, and she'd be damned if she wasn't going to take advantage of it and enjoy herself. The room Layla had led her to was filled with pillows and low-laying cushions, the walls were a deep red, and instead of instilling some kind of arousal, which was doubtless what the intention was, Eris found herself reminded of being inside of a uterus, which would've disgusted her if she wasn't a degenerate herself; just a different caliber than present company.

"Fancy yourself an observant one, huh? I'm new around here, as if my tentative, shy self didn't alert you of that. Don't let the charm fool you, Layla, I'm a friendless, kissless, virgin." Eris said as she found a comfortable place on the cushion, uncaring that there'd probably been hundreds of others who had sat in the same place covered in unidentified liquids.

A server came by within a few seconds to ask if she wanted any drinks, and Eris feigned annoyance at the pretty, dark girl. She was dressed similarly to how Layla had been dressed when she first saw him, clad in leathers and sharp straps, a terribly displeasing look if one asked Eris. Why even pretend to hide it with those fabrics? One might as well go completely nude, as she could see the peaks of the girl's nipples, and even the outline of curls growing in her pubic area. Eris snickered a bit to herself, and took the drinks from the girl, offering it to both herself and Layla.

"Oh, I doubt that. You know how to make a.. girl.. feel good. And I doubt you're friendless, or any of the above. I can always tell." Layla said, leaning his body on the low table that sat in front of their cushions.

Eris copied the prostitute's posture and leaned forward too, drink in one hand and cigarette in the other. Wearing Benny's jacket didn't exactly help her lie low, but lying low was the last thing she wanted to do here. The Omertas would expect a fink to be subtler than her, and unfortunately for her, subtle wasn't in her name, house, or birth certificate – if she even had one. Layla twirled a piece of his long hair between two fingers and looked at her, eyes lidded, trying to make himself more attractive. He was blissfully unaware that Eris wasn't here for _that_. She may have been a degenerate, but she had _some_ standards. All degenerates should, according to her.

"I don't know if I should be offended or delighted. But maybe I should choose offended, because surely, not _all_ I said was a lie for humility's sake. For example, my charm, and that's just one. Are you saying I don't have that?" She struck, watching the emotions play on Layla's face, thinking he'd somehow offended her.

Playing on others' propensity for politeness was one of the finer things in life. She wondered why many were more afraid of impoliteness than they were for their actual lives for the most part, which was prevalent in women moreso than men. But Layla was dressed as a woman, and he was doing pretty well at acting the part, if not hiding his physically masculine traits much. The flush came to the man's relatively pale cheeks, a start contrast to the tan Eris had put on from weeks out in the desert.

"Now before you go ruining the mood with an apology, dollface, nothing you say could hurt my feelings, especially if it leaves _those_ lips. I am a stalwart beacon of pride. The world's foremost scholar on Hegel, Freudianism, and economics in the Alps, wherever that is – Eris, at your service. Or Socrates, if you'd prefer. I think I'd prefer that." Her head dipped in a gesture of mock chivalry, then inhaled her cigarette deeply. Layla relaxed a little then, realizing that he hadn't offended Eris.

The fear and panic that had been in the prostitute's eyes intrigued her, and she desperately wanted to know _why_ exactly he was so fearful. Of course, prostitutes often got beaten by their pimps if they weren't generating enough business, but there was no way Layla wasn't desensitized to that yet. It was then that Eris knew there was something else going on in Gomorrah besides a plot against House. Like all things, one problem inevitably branched into a multitude of even smaller problems. She preferred it that way, she'd discovered she was able to multitask at ease.

Their drinks were fruity but sour, definitely not like the alcohol in the 38, which was rich and decadent, not that she was a connoisseur of fine liquors and wine. But there was a pattern here. Nothing material quite matched anything found up in the 38. The drink was wine, dark and red, though Eris had expected a much harder liquor. She appreciated the pride that the Omertas had in their sleaze, serving cheap wine in an upscale brothel was a bold move. But people didn't come here for the drinks, they came here for the company, and other things, but she wasn't sure what those other things were yet. She'd like to find out, though. Best to make educated assumptions instead of prepare for the worst. After all, she wasn't exactly a forward thinker.

"So.. Socrates or Eris? Which one? The first sounds so foreign.. yet, I don't imagine it's foreign to you. We get a lot of big-talking people here, I hope for once, you can back it up." Layla replied, a coy smile lighting his face, looking at once exploitable. People in his position were always exploitable, they indiscriminately attached themselves to any measure of kindness they were given, and that's why she was here. The decorations were also nice, too, and she wasn't even accounting the undoubtedly fascinating locale.

"Either is fine, but like I said, Socrates is preferred. Do you know who Socrates is, Layla?" She asked, taking another sip from the wine while snuffing out the spent cigarette in the provided ashtray.

"Can't say I do, but I'd love to hear who he, or she, is – from your lips, of course, and no one else's." He said, leaning closer and placing his head on his elbow.

Eris smirked at the display of familiarity and false inquisitiveness. She didn't expect for most to actually be interested in her nonsense, and even if she was bad at reading people, it would be no problem at all to infer that a prostitute would be good at feigning interest. This was their specialty, after all, to make others feel like they were winners. But Eris didn't want to be a winner, and she didn't really care if she was a loser, either, as long as it got her… wherever she was going, which was still unclear to her. This could go anywhere.

"Okay, okay. I'll tell you _all about_ Socrates. You seem like an avid learner, possibly a good student? Or… maybe a bad student? We can work with that, too. Oh yeah, we can definitely work with that." She said, looking into his eyes and hoped to find a spark of attraction, but all she found was the same feigned interest. All was well though, she was used to repelling suitors as soon as she opened her mouth. "He was an Athenian philosopher, noted for saying, 'the only thing I know is that I know nothing'. Does that ring a bell?"

The hooker shook his head again, laughing under his breath at his own ignorance, which usually meant they didn't know and didn't care, but there was a twinkle of something in his eyes. Maybe her femininity comforted him, which, now that Eris thought about it, made a lot of sense. The only men who would be interested in spending a night with Layla would be men who wanted to emasculate other men – sadists, in other words. But what kind of women did Layla get, if he got any female customers at all? For a moment, she thought about how much fun Freud would have if he were able to psychoanalyze Layla, a cross-dressing male hooker. She then decided it would be just as fun for her.

"I'm sure my smarts couldn't compare to yours, honey. He sounds like a wise-guy, though, definitely not from the Mojave." Layla said conversationally. Eris' ears perked at the snippet of a hint that Layla looked down on residents of the Mojave, meaning she might have a poor opinion of it, and therefore, a poor opinion of the Omertas.

"And if I were from the Mojave, would I be less than wise in your eyes?" Eris asked, taking another cigarette out of her pocket and lighting it. She inhaled the first hit deeply, and in between coughs, laughed at herself. "Pardon the rhyme, that was unintentional."

She kept the flip lighter out, playing with the flame, careful not to get it too close to her cup. Her time at Nellis allowed her to better appreciate the danger of an open flame. Suffice to say, she was no pyromaniac.

Her golden-blonde hair was wavier than usual tonight, as she'd neglected to brush it after washing earlier. It was easy for her to forget to take care of her appearance when she was alone, for the only time she cared was when she was expected by others. The performance was all for them. _Well_ , for the reactions she could get out of them.

"I can tell you're not from here, baby. Your hair is so blonde and clean, and you have a distinct air about you that I haven't seen on anyone around here. Besides, you don't even have the accent." Layla answered.

Eris reached for her pack of cigarettes again, ready to offer Layla one. Only, she had another purpose in mind. One of the Omertas was in the room now, and Layla was watching him. The man was unfamiliar to Eris, a darker man clad in a dark suit, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and a submachine gun in the other. Layla looked back to the cigarettes she was offering, and then to the man. The Omerta, much to her confusion, simply nodded his head, and then Layla took the offered cigarette. It was then that Eris understood the interaction, she'd nearly forgotten where she was. So, this fool was her pimp? Or was every Omerta effectively a pimp? These were the questions she should've asked House. But she had her own doubts that House knew all the answers. He seemed to keep a detached eye on the affairs of Vegas, and little more.

"You can speak plainly with me, you know. I for one have no interest in reporting you to that surly, mean-looking thug over there. Say what you like, Layla." She said, lighting the cigarette hanging between his lips.

"Oh, that one? He's not mean, just a little rough around the edges." A tongue darted out to wet his lips then, before tugging on the cigarette.

Her eyes roamed again to get a good look at him. His appearance suggested he was older, but the wasteland had a way of prematurely aging its unlucky inhabitants. He didn't look much different from the average wastelander, only that he had a mean look in his eyes, contrary to what Layla had said before. There were deep wrinkles lining his forehead and circles beneath his eyes, suggesting a lack of sleep, and for what? She intended to find out, the easy way or the hard way. The hard way was always more enjoyable, but she knew her employer would disagree. But he wasn't the one on the ground here, and he'd expressly given her liberties as to how she got this tribe to speak.

"Oh really? I can practically _feel_ his glare, and it isn't even on me! What's his name? Maybe I can roughen him up for you." She said, hoping her cover would be enough to distract Layla from why she was really asking for the guy's name.

Layla chuckled then, but there was no humor in it. He took a few drags from his cigarette, his eyes darting from it to her, forming his words carefully before speaking. Then, he exhaled from his nose, reminding her of a dragon, and tucked a loose hair behind his ear, which she hadn't noticed was pierced. A few patrons arrived then, what looked like a gambler, along with two leather-clad hookers. They sat on some cushions not far from she and Layla, and between keeping an eye on the Omerta, the gambler, and Layla, Eris was having the time of her life. She'd found that she preferred this kind of work over fieldwork.

"Cachino's his name, baby, and believe me when I tell you.. you don't want to fuck with him." He told her, now looking resolutely at her and away from Cachino.

"But I thought you said he wasn't mean, only rough around the edges? He can't be that bad if he's obviously got a problem, and is still too pussy to come over here and say it out loud." She prodded, hoping Layla would let something slip.

"Mm. For my sake, I wish you were right." He said, speaking in lower tones now.

"Try me, baby. I don't mind being proven wrong."

Truly, it was a quality she believed was redeeming, but others didn't seem to think so. If anything, it served only to infuriate them when she accepted a loss. Losses, though, were always gains in disguise. Even if she lost an argument, she could gain from learning something. For that reason, Eris was exceptionally hard to intimidate, or so she thought. Again, lacking a proper ego usually meant lacking in self-awareness, and she had to admit she spent little time thinking about herself, and perhaps that was why she was always so interested in psychoanalysis.

The human ego really was a funny thing. She had no doubt it was down there somewhere, hidden underneath nicotine addiction and a fondness for challenge, but it certainly felt like it reacted differently from other people's, then again, that could just be a lack of awareness. For instance, it made sense that others were bothered by her uncaring attitude towards victory, as it could easily imply that they projected their own insecurities about defeat and wished they had the same attitude towards it. That was a dangerous road of thought though, because implying she had any enviable traits outside of her physical appearance was laughable.

"He watches us a little too much, if you know what I mean. A girl is expected to serve the whims of her masters, but _every little whim_? I think he cares less about running a business, and more about reaping the rewards of it. And a word of advice? I'd stay away from him, he likes pretty girls like you."

Eris resisted the urge to look at said man, but she'd never had very good willpower. She ended up looking in his direction a second later, but he was gone. Layla must have noticed it too, because the tenseness in his shoulders eased a bit, and he began to take lighter hits from his cigarette. Usually, she spent very little time paying attention to the atmosphere of a place, but it felt like everyone around her, including the other patrons in the far corners of the room, were breathing easier now.

If the man's very presence suffocated even the customers, that made Cachino a person of interest in this case. Layla's words implied that Cachino might be closer with the workers here than what was considered strictly professional, and if there was something Eris was quickly learning about the workers at Gomorrah, it was that everything was up for grabs, for a price. But Eris wasn't going to follow a lead based on the words of one prostitute – she still needed evidence. Everyone liked evidence, right?

"Speaking of whims, what all _is_ expected of you? I've never had the pleasure of meeting with too many like you. It's not everyday I find myself in an establishment like this, with a dame like you. It's all new to me, see." Her throat was starting to hurt from all the smoking, and it was showing in her scratchy voice. She must've smoked half a pack in the past five hours alone. The old world cigarettes were never as strong as the ones imported by the Crimson Caravan.

"Things that would probably shock you, baby." His voice suggested sly evasiveness, but his eyes were fearful rather than seductive.

"Like I said before, try me." She replied, leaning away from the table and laying her head back on the dark wall. Normally, she'd be heading back to the 38 by now, but the characters of suspicion came out to play at night, and that was including her.

Her mind ran at a million miles an hour, thinking of all the possible things expected of someone in his place. The possibilities took an interesting turn, considering such a person would interest only the most sadistic and degenerate of patrons, and she was sure that he would have some of the most thrilling tales – for her, at least. So often did her thrill come at the expense of others. She supposed this trait had been with her since before The Incident, and that this was the most likely possibility, as there was no way she'd spent all her time with her nose in books. The kind of knowledge she had could've only been bullied, or irritated, out of other people.

"Are you trying to ask me what's the worst I've done? You'd be surprised how many ask that, baby." He replied.

"Not exactly. My curiosity is centered less around _your_ experiences, and more about the general experience of a worker here at Gomorrah. If you're willing to part with the _personal_ experience, well, you'll find that in addition to being an excellent speaker, I am also gifted with being an excellent listener." She winked for good measure, and hoped she wouldn't blow her cover. Then again, that could be interesting – but having a free home at the 38 was _more_ interesting.

"Well, most of us started out as slaves. That's what the Omertas did, back when they were 'Slitherkin'. I was always different than the other boys, more feminine, you know.. the Slitherkin weren't too fond of women, beyond how useful they were at luring others into their traps. Our lives were improved somewhat when the Omertas began working for the Overboss."

This information wasn't really what Eris was after, but she listened intently nonetheless, trying not to get distracted by the patron in the corner touching himself. Her straight face broke when she heard him moaning, the sound reminding her of a brahmin in heat. The hookers servicing him were both older women, the tags on them had expired ages ago, but she supposed there was something for everyone, if that was truly how the universe worked. But who would be naive enough to believe that the universe bowed to the whims of its inhabitants? Plenty, apparently.

"By Overboss, you mean Mr. House, yeah?"

"That's the one, baby. I'll admit.. it's kinda refreshing to have a night off. So few come around for civilized talk. But, they show their faces occasionally." He said, smiling into his drink.

"Should I feel threatened by the others who seek out your conversation?" Finally, Eris was beginning to feel a buzz from the drinks.

Having remembered the pleasurable synergy by mixing alcohol and nicotine, another cigarette was lit, going straight to her head, irritated throat forgotten. She then waved the server over again for another round of drinks. This time, she took more than two from the server, hoping that the night would be long enough for her to get some information she could work with from Layla.

"That's not how this works, Eris, Socrates. My, you have some weird names for a Wastelander, speaking of that. Everyone I see is their own person, I don't compare them to the others. So if you feel threatened, it ain't my fault, baby."

Was that a coping mechanism or was that simply the job? She imagined it was the former, considering that hookers entertained hundreds, and good ones, _thousands_. If a hooker allowed themselves to dwell on that one considerate client, it would be harder to survive the rough, sadistic ones. This train of thought led her to consider that this could've been a trigger for dissociative personalities – perhaps one could learn to disassociate clients from others, thus eventually disassociating their body from their mind.

Eris played with that theory in her mind, while quickly coming up with a response to Layla's reassuring words. They were unnecessary, as her flirting was nearly always a bluff and more of a game, if anything.

A minute earlier, Layla had mentioned that it was refreshing that a client wanted civil conversation, and the argumentative part of Eris wanted to point out that this directly conflicted with how he'd mentioned afterwards that he didn't compare his clients. It took willpower that Eris didn't know she had, to keep her mouth zipped. Indeed, not a minute went by in her discussions with anyone where she didn't actively look for an inconsistency in someone's logic to openly dispute. It was, after all, nearly always a source of learning.

" _I'm not like the other girls_ , see. Don't reply to that, and don't mind my bullshit, baby. I was wondering also – what you said about the Overboss. You had said he'd improved things for you somehow. Can I ask how?" Another swig from her drink, and the feeling was intensifying. The gambler in the corner was getting up off the cushions now, letting himself be ushered by the girls on either side, which left she, Layla, the wandering server, and one of the Omertas, who stood on the opposite side of the room, outside of hearing distance. Hopefully.

"Sure. We came here a few years ago, after he fixed up Vegas. We were all trained, underwent name changes, took on new 'professions', but as you can see, that ain't true. All of the girls here, and the boys too, are indebted to the Omertas. Used to be, we were 'enslaved', but changing the name to indebted doesn't change what it really is, does it? You seem to be good with definitions." Layla arched his brow at her, taking another sip from his glass. "We get to keep some of our money now, true enough, not that you could really tell. And since we're not _slaves_ , we can't be sold to anyone else. We sell ourselves instead."

Eris got the feeling that she was getting warmer to some kind of jackpot, and took a few insignificant drinks from her glass so that she could hide how giddy she was. The checkered jacket was starting to feel like a heating pad though, courtesy of the alcohol, but her cigarettes were in that pocket, as well as a few stray caps that she'd managed to keep to herself. Instead of taking that off, she pulled at her hair a bit, removing the light, stray strands that had managed to find their way inside of the thick jacket. Tomorrow, she would leave the jacket behind, and find… something, anything, else.

"So for instance, those caps I gave you earlier, how many of them will you get to keep?" She asked.

"Twenty percent." It was Eris' turn to arch her brow, but she wasn't surprised it was so low, it was because it was _higher_ than she'd expected. Now then, was it the Omertas supplying the chems or was it the hookers buying it for themselves? "You do the math, baby. It would be five percent, if it wasn't for some kind of deal with the Overboss. But, they keep us in the dark about that kind of stuff."

Eris tried to imagine her vehemently capitalist employer arguing over the amount of caps a Gomorrah prostitute was allowed to keep, and found that it wasn't that difficult. She did wonder, however, if there was any compassion, or only rationale, that drove him to enforcing a higher percentage. It seemed that a great deal of decisions reached by rationalism manifested as compassionate, and based on her reading of House, which could always be false, it was most likely born from rationale. The only way of reaching any progress with that, would be asking him later.

Although, he seemed to have a rather passionate hatred, which had no basis in reason, for slavery. Anytime she attempted to bring to light the master-slave dialectic, which she'd learned from the Hegelian books he'd loaned her, he thoughtlessly disputed everything she said, angry more with her use of the word slave and master than the concept itself. It had taken some adjustments of her presentation of the idea before he was receptive at all – he'd seemed perfectly okay when she used the word 'employer' in place of 'master'.

"Can any random Omerta dock the caps from you? How does it usually go? Because if my boss left me with only twenty percent of my earnings, you can bet I'd be starting a union quick and fast." She emphasized her point with a snap of her fingers, "In fact, you could raise that bet to the highest riser in Vegas."

Layla laughed, the sound oddly pleasing, as it was the first one with any depth behind it. He was getting drunk now, she could tell. His eyes were becoming more glassy, his face beginning to sport a silly smile, though a semblance of control remained, most especially in his posture – he didn't look comfortable in this room, which was odd, considering he'd probably spent a great deal of time here. Sure, Eris felt like she was being watched from afar, but she also wasn't a hooker spilling secrets about her pimps.

"No no, Eris. Even back then, the men had a hierarchy. Nero's at the top, he's the leader. We don't see him much. Big Sal is his right hand – he runs the casino. And Cachino-"

"That brooding fellow who was in here earlier?" She interrupted.

"Yeah, that's him. You've been paying attention, then. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're trying to case the joint, baby. But that'd be a sour end to an otherwise sweet evening.. but yes, Cachino. He's some kind of big guy, he's the one that gets the dues."

Eris looked at the doorway that Cachino had disappeared through awhile back, forgetting that it had been well over an hour since he'd been around. She was down to her last few cigarettes, but the casino was always selling them. Returning to the 38 right now would be amateur, everyone here was being watched, and the hookers outside were the eyes of the joint. They saw everything, and if they were as desperate for caps as Layla had told her, they'd sell her out immediately. Best not to go down that route, she wasn't ready to be a blonde stain on the floor just yet, even though the annoying tune on the radio tempted her.

"Let's get outta here, go somewhere else, this room's starting to get boring, I'm almost out of smokes, and Oedipus over there is about to start imploding." She said, purposefully making her voice louder so he would overhear.

"Shut the fuck up, I'm tryin' to get my rocks off ova' here." The gambler replied, his lips curled up in a snarl, revealing a shiny, golden tooth.

* * *

Eris rolled awake, still dressed in the dress from last night. Her hair stuck to her face, the usual straight strands wavy and mussed. A groan left her mouth at the familiar sensation of a hangover, something only a coffee and a cigarette could fix.

There were a few things she'd learned last night. The first, was that Cachino was suspicious, but that didn't mean anything unless she figured out _how_ , and that description would fit almost anyone on the Strip. Everyone was here to fulfill some kind of materialistic urge, so she couldn't rightly accuse him of anything until she investigated further. The second, was that there was someone staying at Gomorrah that even the hookers were afraid of. She'd squeezed this information out of Layla last night – figuratively, of course.

The third, was that Layla got his chems from Freeside, and not from the Omertas. This _could_ mean that the others got theirs from Freeside, too, which meant a trip to Freeside was in order. Buying chems from random fools was never a good idea, anyways. So much of it was watered down or some kind of analogue of a better chem.

The sun was high in the sky by the time she managed to jump out of bed, and her Pip-Boy showed that it was two in the afternoon. She began to look over one of the books she'd picked up while playing errand girl for the Boomers. It was some kind of manual on programming, which was a topic she didn't care for. Just as her eyes began to glaze over, she promptly snapped it closed. There was no sense reading a snoozer like that unless she intended to go back to the sheets.

House would likely want to know what was going on, so she lit a cigarette before hopping on the elevator to the penthouse. The lights were bright, too bright for someone who'd spent most of the night in the Gomorrah, and she rolled her eyes at the overly clinical setting. She hadn't changed out of her doubtlessly wrinkled dress, and her hair was probably a mess – but that was best, because it would annoy House, even if he was too proper to act on it.

She wondered if he was in an office somewhere deep in the 38, in sweatpants and a tee, or in a full suit and tie. That idea depended on if he was even corporeal to begin with. There was always the slim chance he could be an AI. In fact, that was not so slim of a chance, now that she gave it some proper thought. He could really be anything, and although she would normally be bored by now, the mystery of House was far too intriguing for her to lose interest just yet.

Her bare feet pattered on the immaculate tiles, leaving footprints where there usually were none. The air in here was always quiet until their discussions, when his voice would boom around the room from every direction. Maybe she should visit a doctor soon and get her hearing checked up on – she had a suspicion she was getting way too desensitized to loud voices.

"House, are you an AI?" She asked, her mood now brighter at the prospect of riling him up only minutes after waking.

The monitor, which, when uninhabited, would say 'connection lost', now gave way for the image of Mr. House, that sly, calculating visage which she was becoming annoyingly, and therefore, interestingly, familiar with. She never failed to get some kind of irritated response out of him, even if he stubbornly refused to part with his pre-war professionalism.

In this way, he was much different from Caesar, who she'd only spoken with twice, and wished it didn't have to be that way. Caesar had mixed his big words with slang, he didn't mind using his no-no words. She knew logically that this gave others the impression that he was understanding of the lowlife, that he wasn't entirely desensitized to the struggles of the common people. House, on the other hand, spoke with an astounding arsenal of verbiage, which, to the average observer, may have seemed pretentious, and she stuck with that description, but it could also be ineptitude of the social kind. The mere notion of him saying _shit_ had her giggling.

"Excuse me?" Came his response.

"Ooh, answering a question with a question now, are we? Brave, considering who you're talking to." She swelled out her chest but then coughed a moment later. While she was out in Freeside later, she'd need to stop and get a few more packs of cigarettes. These just weren't up to par, and her standards were low.

He scoffed indignantly, but did not take the bait, "I've already _told you_ , that I am flesh and blood, not silicon. I take it that you're here for a reason, and not simply to bother me with inane questions? Or is that too much to ask?"

A cheeky smile lifted her face then, the hangover all but forgotten. How could anyone take themselves so seriously? Of course, she could understand that if no one ever took anything seriously, there'd be a shocking lack of infrastructure and authority that most people needed. Even Eris, though she was loathe to admit it. She supposed that without people like him, there wouldn't be any structures for her to poke at.

"I think you know the answer to that last question you posed, or do I need to walk you through it?" She laughed, then continued, "Look at me, being condescending, acting like you and all. You must be rubbing off on me."

"Acting like me would imply that you act with any deliberation at all, or indeed cared about anything other than conflict."

She opened her mouth to protest, but found that she had nothing to say to that. So far, she could count on her hand how many times she'd been rendered speechless since The Incident, and this was one of them. Despite this, she agreed with him. She was aware of the implications her behavior had, but instead of admitting defeat openly, she merely laughed again, her go-to for anything that actually struck a cord.

"I know, I know. But seriously, let's not act like you're a paragon of harmony and virtue. You run a city of degenerates and whores, surely a little of that is nestled comfortably inside of you somewhere? Deep, deep down, like a Yao Guai in hibernation. Who knows, maybe you're back there in some chamber, getting some from a nameless hooker. I wonder, do you have an Oedipus complex, or do you like to pretend to be their father?" The words spilled before she could even protest, only now realizing that she'd said something offensive. "Excuse me, that was.. distasteful."

"I'm sure I could be persuaded to forgive your _misguided_ fantasies, so long as you continue to be a useful asset. Unless you have anything to report, you and I have _nothing_ to discuss." His words sounded like a hiss now, and she winced only slightly at the sound. Her intentions were never to actually _hurt_ people, especially people she liked somewhat, but he didn't need to know that.

"Actually, there is something I think you do need to know, if you could be so forgiving as to suffer my presence for another minute or two." She took his silence as acceptance and continued, filling him in on the events of last night, though only the things that were need-to-know. "Cachino is up to something, he watched me and.. someone, last night, and there may be another worker there who seems to be a weak link and could be of some help in learning what Cachino is up to. Also, there's someone staying at Gomorrah that at least one of the girls seems to be afraid of, and by my judgment, if any of these women are afraid of someone, that someone is most likely a person of interest, yeah? So, that's what I have so far."

"Then your next course of action will be to follow through with this worker you mentioned. I assume you haven't spoken with the receptionist I informed you about?" Now, it was his turn to pick.

"Affirmative." She replied, saluting, unsure of how else to lighten the tension, which was unfortunately of the uncomfortable variety. "You gave me freedom to solve this problem however I see fit, remember? I'm using that freedom, and also, I might need caps soon."

She could practically visualize what face he was making right now – trying to decide on whether he wanted to give her the boot for the moment, or actually solve the problem. Ah.. the eternal, uphill battle between practicality and human emotion. It never failed to lift her spirits. Already, she was forgetting her slip-up in amiability a minute ago.

"I'm sure something can be arranged."

Practicality won.


	12. Part II, Chapter XII: The Smooth Operator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The pace fluctuates in the second part of this story, and I thought an inconsistent pace was more ideal than writing filler that myself and no one else wants to read. Thank you to those of you who are reading this painfully slow-burn rarepair. And thank you to Tempestad, for appreciating some of the things I do (I consider this particular legendarium to be one of the finer things in life).
> 
> A word of warning – Eris does something slightly questionable in this chapter, but you haven't seen anything yet. There's a reason I jokingly gave this story the tag of having a mildly sociopathic protagonist (it wasn't that much of a joke..). I'm sure Eris would protest, though. Likely, she would blame it on brain damage. She's an underhanded asshole.

_You're a smooth operator, you're a real cool sweet potato_

_Kiss me baby, don't you make me wait_

_Hug me baby, don't hesitate_

_Take my heart, and don't give it back – I like it like that_

_-"Smooth Operator", by Dorothy Dandridge_

* * *

If it was inevitable for man to be a slave to an idea, why was it that he never chose a _virtuous_ idea to surrender himself to? Why was it always sex, money, or violence? Has man truly advanced past his primitive ancestor, or has he done so, yet is afraid to move forward? If it is the former, he has a long ways to go yet, and if it is the latter, he needs only to admit his desire to return to his previous form – this instead makes him a traditionalist, rather than a nihilist, and since reputation among his primy peers is yet another vice of his, calling himself a traditionalist will act as a temporary bandage for this hypothetical, nihilist man.

"No, I'm afraid that's where you're wrong, what's your name again?" She asked the blond man sat in front of her snarkily.

"Arcade Gannon, researcher for the Followers of the Apocalypse." He grumbled in response, apparently embarrassed at the attention from those surrounding. Nearly everyone was watching the table that she, Arcade, and a few others were sitting at.

"Well, Arcade Gannon", Eris took a drag from her cigarette and exhaled out of the corner of her mouth, "I'm afraid credentials have little use here, but I doubt you actually care about them either. But others do, which is why you use the age-old 'I'm a professional' argument. But-" She sighed dramatically, preparing a retort for what he'd said earlier.

She'd met a few people in the Atomic Wrangler after sourcing some Med-X for the Gomorrah workers she planned on grilling later this evening. The drugs were the main course she'd come looking for, and Arcade was just an appetizer, warming her up for the talking she'd be doing later. He was a man who was rather on the tall side, with blond hair a couple shades lighter than hers. His lips were thin, and he wore rectangular eyeglasses, for which she desperately wanted to call him 'four-eyes', but that was a low blow, even for her.

The Follower was also astute and was easily seeing through the fallacies she was feeding to the rest of the table, who'd thus far been watching their debate with bated breath, pretending they understood what she and the doctor were talking about.

"How many people are slaves in this world? Hell, in the Mojave alone? And before you retaliate with something clever, take into account that while everyone here is a slave, most are likely unaware of it. Or worse, they're a slave to freedom, and they make no secret of this. Freedom is their master, and they are its slave, for whom they would follow even unto death. Now Caesar's boys, they're fully accepting of this dynamic, even if they are unaware of most of its implications, which is a philosophical sin, however, this alone speaks volumes about them. They don't fight against the inevitable, and the inevitable here, is that they, and we, are all slaves." She proposed, inhaling from her cigarette once again.

Onlookers' eyes were widened at her controversial statement, a trooper clad in an NCR cap even sneered in disgust, but did nothing else, as his ideals forbade him from attacking others for their ideals alone. This was yet another point she wanted to broach at some point when given the opportunity – moderates always lost against extremists.

"No one can be a slave to freedom. Slavery is antithetical to freedom in every way, what defines them is what makes that claim invalid. There can't _really_ be respite between the two, ethics aside." Arcade replied, pushing his sliding eyeglasses further up his nose.

"You know, I find the word antithetical to be a slippery slope, redundant, at best. Legionnaires are slave to many things, chief among them being martial superiority and fascism. Now, if martial superiority is an idea, and an idea is a noun, it is most certainly a _thing_ that one can swear themselves to. Freedom is an idea, a noun, a _thing_. Therefore, it is semantically possible to be both a proponent of freedom and a slave to it." Arcade seemed to think this over for a moment, and briefly, she was disappointed that he wasn't at least offended. "And if one can be a slave to any _thing_ , then truly, none of us are free. In this way, Caesar's onto something."

It was excellent food for thought, in her opinion, and she could admire Caesar's logic without swearing fealty to the man. Observers looked to each other, searching for the approval of their peers before commenting on the discussion going on. They, like so many, feared speaking their mind, lest they be marked a man or woman of reason, because it _was_ at least reasonable to know your enemy, and if you wanted to get even more advanced, you could even sympathize with your enemy. The Legion wasn't her enemy, it was barely even her acquaintance yet.

And just the same, the attendants in this bar were also little more than acquaintances with the Legion – they barely understood someone they labeled as their enemy, and yet they had the chutzpah to use said label without accepting her challenge? The doctor was the exception, of course. The atmosphere was ablaze, the stares at their table were burning into the side of her head, but that was never an unpleasant sensation for her. If social intrigue could be contained in a canister, she would have no reason to be a smoker. But perhaps.. that was stretching it?

"Girl, I don't know how you can say that when you've been out here long enough to know what the Legion is all about. I mean, you heard about what they did in Nipton, right? Burnt the mayor alive, threw some kind of fucked up lottery for the survivors who didn't fight back. That is some fucked up shit, and I'm wonderin' how you can defend it 'sall." One of the more outspoken women said, addressing her.

The doctor was watching her now too, and he was probably thinking she was going to back down and scold Vulpes Inculta's brilliant, albeit unnecessarily violent scheme that showcased the Legion's hypocritical attitude towards utilitarianism. If the Legion was truly utilitarian, they wouldn't waste any lives unless they were at war with them. Surely, not everyone in Nipton had a worthless life. But these people didn't need to know that. She lived to shatter people's expectations of her.

"I'm sure most of you have heard of the Bitter Springs Massacre, yeah?" She asked the table, all heads nodded, and Arcade's brow scrunched in curiosity, probably curious where she was going with this. If the man was as quick as she thought he may be, he might have known already where she was going.

"We're all aware that this instance was a terrible loss of life – for everyone involved. Most people would blame the NCR for this, but there's another, more despicable angle. Could it not be that the Khans kept their women, children, and elderly there, to act as some kind of sick meat shield? It's not the first time this has happened in history." She said, though she herself could not recount one instance of it happening in history. If anyone was going to catch her bluff, it would be the doctor, but as it was, he was listening intently. "Nipton was just the same. The Powder Gangers living there were hiding behind traders, civilians, and a few unsavory types. Those Powder Gangers, and the whores of Nipton, let innocents be slaughted, and did nothing. Then, they cried about the cruelty of the Legion, even though they did _nothing_ to stop them. Can you see the pattern here, or is it just me?"

This got them thinking quickly, as she'd intended. Her lips curved up into a smile, and her wasted cigarette lay forgotten between her fingers. Did she really care about what others thought? No, not really – but she knew she liked _making_ them think. Just then, she lit another cigarette and flipped her hair back with her free hand. It was stifling in there, and she realized then that she was becoming so accustomed to the Strip and its air conditioning – she couldn't remember a time she'd sweated in the 38. It was never a good idea to get too comfortable. If one had to speak with the lowlife, one had to live like the lowlife. Occasionally.

She had her doubts that any of these clowns knew as much about Nipton as she did. After all, she was the one who'd stepped into the merry scene after it had happened. She got a firsthand, genuine experience of the Mojave's political organism up close. The smell was awful the first time she got a whiff, but spending time in Freeside and those couple of days at the Fort had trained her nose to look the other way.

"The angle you're proposing is fresh and interesting, but I don't think the comparison is appropriate, at least ethically. I think anyone would have a hard time likening crucifixion and prolonged torture to war. I agree with you on what the NCR did at Bitter Springs was a horrible loss of life, but we know the Khans aren't an advanced military force, and from their nomadic lifestyle we can infer that at any given Khan encampment, there will be women, children, and the elderly. We know this _now_ , but the NCR didn't know this then, and I don't believe the Khans were expecting to be met in battle at such a place. They're still the victims of this, miss." Arcade retaliated, his voice still measured and gentle.

"Then it's their fault for picking a fight with a greater military force than their own, and that's putting using the weak as meat shields aside. Let's not pretend the Khans are babies who need to be swaddled. The great majority of them are traffickers, and the only thing that separates them from raiders is their strict code of honor. This is in no way an attack of the Khans, rather it is a praise of their strategy. I don't think the Khans need _you_ , or anyone, really, to defend them. Doing so implies they are somehow _lesser_ , that they are reliant on us, when nothing could be farther from the truth." She said, taking a sip of water. "Their brilliant strategy lies in their ability to manipulate public opinion of them through claiming victimhood. If they can't win a battle traditionally, they will win the war by virtue of victimhood, like the Powder Gangers."

"While our conversation has been nothing less than refreshing, I need to return to the Mormon Fort." The doctor said after a few moments of silence, the observers already having gone back to their drinks and conversation.

"How late are you?" Eris asked, confident that he'd set aside some work when he'd seen her entertaining guests with her controversial opinions. The good thing about being outspoken was that it attracted other individuals who also wanted to speak their minds, but were too shy to do so.

The doctor peeked a gaze at the rusty clock in the Wrangler, his brow only rising minutely at the time. Over the past three hours, he hadn't been the most expressible in either voice or form. Where most people's brows would be raising almost comically at some of the nonsense that came out of her mouth, his brow raised only quizzically, or skeptically, rather.

"Two hours. So, I'm afraid I really must be going." He rose from his seat then, and she was reminded of someone especially socially awkward.

He nearly tripped when he was getting out of his seat, and she didn't hide her laugh at his failure. His eyes traveled back up to meet hers, but there was no spite there, or even humiliation. A laugh escaped his lips too, seemingly at his own clumsiness.

"What, my charming personality isn't enough to keep you here?" She asked.

"Maybe another time, if you're in the area? Also, if you ever need medical assistance, find me at the Mormon Fort at the other end of town – I.. I don't do much most days other than research." He stammered, and Eris put on her most reassuring smile at his awkward behavior.

"Sure enough, Gannon. Once my schedule clears up, in, say, three months? Maybe I can find time for you then, then again, maybe not?" She said, and the man nodded in acceptance. "I'm fucking with you. I'll be around!"

The doctor left her at the table, which was surprisingly clear now. She was never very good at paying great attention to sensory detail anyways. She'd had a drink tonight, though she was still saving herself for Gomorrah. If she was going to lose her drug virginity, it may as well be clean.

For the past three nights, she'd been spending most of it in Gomorrah, with Layla or with Joanna, a hooker who was expressing subtle hints at a desire to escape, though she still didn't have her trust yet. The Med-X in her bag would see that through, hopefully – if it didn't, well, she'd just have to come up with something creative. And latest discussion being case in point, she could be pretty creative.

Although not the most perceptive of sensory details, she could feel eyes on her back, though she didn't make to turn around. There were freaks all around Vegas, it's why she was growing to like it – and so it didn't occur to be wary, so she waited for the sensation to go away, or for the creep to show his or her face. She lit a cigarette and crossed her arms, setting her feet on the chair to her left. A minute and three eye rolls later, she called out to the stranger who was still watching her. Likely, it wasn't a stranger if he was watching her still, she was still mostly anonymous throughout most of Vegas.

"I can feel your eyes, creep. Do you need an engraved invitation to face me?" Nothing. "Alright, how about I get a collector to pick out a nice, shiny rock so that I can put in big bold letters: you are cordially invited to stop staring and start talking. Yeah?"

A creak sounded in the rickety floorboards, and Eris turned her body to face him. Although disguised in plain worker's clothes and a fedora, she could easily tell this was Inculta. Had he watched the entire show? How she hoped he had – it was an inspiring performance, in her educated opinion. One of her best performances, in fact. It wasn't often that she could hold a conversation on why the Legion wasn't entirely lacking in virtue, unlike what the overwhelming majority thought.

"Ah, Mr. Fox. To what do I owe this esteemed pleasure? Shall I wash your feet with my hair for the honor of your presence?" She asked, keeping her voice snarky, though not unfriendly.

"I happened upon town, and I thought it would be most wasteful if I did not check on your progress." He said, taking a seat to the right of her in the robotic fashion she associated him with. Was it robotic or was it simply cautious, cold? "Though, judging by the contents of your bag, I deem it safe to assume your progress has not changed since our last meeting."

Right. She'd indirectly, and thus dishonestly, told Caesar she'd take care of his little problem concerning House. It had been barely two months, edging on three, since then and surely it wasn't time for Caesar to come and get his dues? Even if he was, she didn't doubt her ability to weasel out of it when she needed to most. Besides, Inculta himself had mentioned that he was already in town, but that could imply a number of things in that context. She also didn't question how he knew she had an ego-death amount of chems in her bag, they were bulging out of the side, after all.

His cheekbones were so striking, a feature she'd noticed immediately in Nipton, since his eyes were covered then. The no-nonsense personality he maintained prevented her usual attacks from going any further than the surface, so this meant she had to use different methods with him. Different methods was good, though. Different methods meant she could save her brand from premature death.

"So, you're a connoisseur of profligate drugs? Color me surprised. I never would have considered that you had it in you, you dirty hypocrite. Concerning progress, I've been making progress, just.. progress of a different caliber, dig?" She smirked in his direction, and he smiled back, though perhaps not genuinely. They were being watched from afar by other patrons.

"Progress for the sake of progress? You haven't struck me with that impression before." He replied, adding under his breath, "I overheard the congregation before, and wanted to see it for myself. It is my duty, after all, to catch whispers of my.. family, mentioned by lips such as yours. Your defense of my performance at Nipton was, how shall I put this? _Remarkably done_ , yet you inadvertently left some minor details out. It's no matter, of course – that is one of many lessons we will teach the people of this land."

She wondered if he felt personal pride in that endeavor, something that was his and not Caesar's. As a collectivist who denied his own individual importance, everything he did was only to serve the collective and nothing more, though she wondered if there was an inkling of pride and possessiveness for his actions in Nipton. Perhaps Nipton was his Magnum Opus, his single greatest achievement and point of pride?

If that was so, then it would be a mercy to allow him to have such a victory – at least, psychologically speaking. She was still unsure if she was wholly against a Legion victory over the NCR, but it seemed a good idea to give Inculta this small mercy of having his own, small conquest, for which Caesar had little to do with in its orchestration. Rarely did she feel any sort of empathy for others, but there was this thankfully small part inside of her that was sad with Inculta's inability to realize his Self due to his fanatical service to the Legion, and furthermore, his inability to challenge his master. One could be a member of the collective, yet still be singular, right?

On that note, she realized Caesar handled Hegel's master-slave dialectic incorrectly. If he was truly a Hegelian, he would understand the need to relinquish control over a slave after said slave finally deduces that they have mastered what their master is unable to. Was this a simple oversight or misinterpretation, or did he assume no one else was curious enough to read Hegel but him? She suspected it was a little bit of both – Caesar read Hegel, began to use Hegelian philosophy, realized that there was a one in a thousand chance anyone would understand Hegelian philosophy, and began to interpret it to meet his own ends.

Not that she was judging, though. Caesar's ways were orderly, if not a bit dishonest. Again, no room to judge, as she was in the process of buying sex workers with drugs so they would reveal the plans of the Omertas, risking everyone's lives in the process. A little dishonesty didn't hurt anything. Dishonesty often maintained order, ironically enough. On that, she was sure Inculta would agree.

"I've no doubt about it, _Professor_ Fox. Maybe you could stop telling people you're a businessman and start telling them you're a teacher?" She snarked, though when a couple walked past them, she quickly added, "I'd be your student in a heartbeat."

His brow quirked at that, though his eyes were humorless and blank as they always were. The secrets behind that stoic mask intrigued her, but no one should feel singular for _that_. Her interest was easily piqued.

"If you're through throwing empty words, which, I assure you, I can see behind, then I will leave you here. Do remember what I said about my father being fair both in rewarding and in punishment. Do not fail him." She knew he was talking about Caesar, though their presence in this 'profligate' bar disallowed them from speaking plainly. That was a pity.

She was quick to reply to that first piece, "What can I say, I'm talkative. I'm a good talker, I like to talk. Who doesn't like to talk to me?"

"I can think of a great number of people whom you'd have nothing but silence to offer." _That_ caught her attention, though she replied only with a guffawing laugh at what she perceived to be a veiled threat.

"Get out of here, fox boy. But don't stay gone too long, I'm clingy and I'll miss your voice too much." She said, lighting a cigarette. She let the smoke blow in his direction before saying in a sing-songy voice, "Ave, true to Caesar."

The vulpine man's face hardened at that last sentence, but he nodded nonetheless and his features returned to blankness. Really, she couldn't help but tease people who took these matters too seriously. Sure, she contemplated the sociopolitical environment of the Mojave at least five times in any given day and felt certain that she'd be cold and dead in the ground before it was all said and done, but it was nothing to sweat over. None of that was going to live in her head rent-free, unless said problem offered free pre-war literature.

"Remember, Courier. You have important choices to make regarding your allies." Was the last thing he said, before joining someone at another table in the opposite corner.

For a few minutes, she watched the spy speak with someone who was likely an informant of his, or, an informant of his Legion. Certainly, there were some clear benefits to ownership being the sole right of a state, but was it the natural conclusion for mankind? Eris shook her head at that thought, distrusting the idea that anything had a conclusion. As far as she was concerned, everything seemed cyclical so far, with no real progression – every human action was due to some repressed psychological urge manifesting in physical form. She wasn't against being proven wrong, though. She welcomed it.

Walking back to the Strip under the cover of night wasn't something she had in mind when she first set out to Freeside, but her attention couldn't be expected to focus on anything for too long.

"Whatcha got in that bag of yours, girly?" A particularly filthy man uttered from one of the poorly lit alleyways. He reminded her of a molerat somehow, and she thought to herself that she'd rather be toothless than have a set like that.

"Drugs." She answered, curious what direction this would take if she answered straightforwardly for once.

Obviously, the man hadn't expected her to say this, and his expression switched to distrust, his eyes narrowed and his teeth bared. She couldn't help the playful sneer that twisted her lips then, at the sight of his rotten teeth freed from his scabby lips. Most would've had their hand on the trigger already, but she wanted to see what he'd do for the drugs – _if_ he went for them at all. Although she had no knowledge other than of the street variety when it came to drugs, the effect they had on users managed to pique her curiosity, like so many other things. She was a people person though, so anything that could influence them was something that couldn't fail to get her attention.

Waiting wasn't really her style, so she spoke up, "Well? Was that all?"

"N-no. Ain't nobody that straight talkin' when they got the goods." He replied, a weird look passing over his face.

Instead of allowing this to intimidate her, she shrugged and a small smile lit up her face, the sneer wiped off. The urge to light a cigarette was lingering somewhere in the background, and her hand almost went to her pocket to fulfill it. Rather than going that direction, she flipped her hair and quickly formed a reply.

"Well, _genius_ , 'ain't nobody' stopping someone on the road of Freeside at night to have an innocent rendezvous. So, what do you want? A job application for RobCo Industries? A forged permit to enter the Strip?" She paused, then gasped for effect, "Ooh, I know what you want! You want some Med-X, don't you?" Her voice lowered into that of indulgent.

She was sure the working girls were waiting for her in Gomorrah, she had told them she would be there tonight, after all. But as Cato the Elder had said, " _patience is the greatest of all virtues_ ". Cato was a dusty, monotonous statesman, though.

"You know what they say: you can't have something for nothing. So, what are you willing to give?" Was her question.

"I got some friends that can get ya the caps tomorrow, girly. No lyin'. Quick as a whistle."

She wondered if he even knew what a whistle was. She certainly had never seen one, at least not out here in the Mojave. A different idea came to her then. This could potentially turn into something entertaining for her, and she knew she'd never see the caps, nor did she intend on delivering these products to anyone except the Gomorrah hookers.

"I got a better idea than that, actually. You up for a little run? A little _athleticism_?" The man's filthy face twisted into confusion then, and she knew the surprise of the request would override the suspicion.

"Whatchu got in mind?" He asked.

"Do you think you could deliver a message to those robots guarding the Strip's entrance? I need to get word to Mr. House, just tell them that Eris says she'll be reporting in tomorrow, and she's not really feeling up to the challenge of basking in his presence just yet, yeah? Can you do that? Very, very quickly?" He nodded, the confused look still plastered on his face.

A snigger bubbled up in her throat then, but she culled it when he actually turned around and started his run towards the gates. Her hand groped for the piece she had hidden in her pants, pulling it from its tiny holster. A finger flipped the safety off, and she aimed for the man's head. She missed, but hit him in the neck instead. He collapsed like some kind of sock puppet, arms and legs splaying in an amusing manner. A few seconds later, the twitching stopped, and she walked in the direction she'd sent him in.

"Take that, sucker." She said to the heap on the ground, turning away and not awarding him with one more look.

Caesar would probably berate her for wasting an otherwise potentially productive slave worker, as utilitarian as he was. The NCR would probably arrest her for harming an individual who had the right to live as any other, and then they'd force her to live out the rest of her years in prison, living off the tax dollars of the layman. What would House say, though?

More than likely, he wouldn't comment anything other than not wishing to hear her 'barbaric' exploits. He didn't seem to have a high opinion of boasting, at least when it came to violence. No, he was apparently above those things. With that aside, though, she didn't think he'd care for this random addict's death. He would never be productive for the city-state of Vegas – he was too frail to be a manual laborer, too simple to be a thinker, and his appearance too bedraggled to be an attraction.

* * *

The first drink went down quickly enough, though her throat was already becoming dry and scratchy by the time she got to the second one. She'd officially run out of cigarettes an hour ago, and though she tried to bum some cigarettes off of the patron in Brimstone, he'd waved her away and told her to pay him 'something good' for a few smokes. She'd asked him if an analysis of the NCR was enough, but he'd laughed at her, as she'd expected.

And that was how she found herself in Layla's private quarters, bumming cigarettes off the hooker in exchange for free doses of Med-X. Eris didn't mind, in fact, it was better if she relieved herself of the unreasonable amount of chems in her possession. It just didn't bode well for any kind of discretion. It was even more dangerous than lugging caps around.

Her thoughts darted to the unnamed man from earlier than she'd put down. It didn't take long for her to justify it – he probably would've jumped her the next day, or attempted to, anyhow. If that explanation didn't work, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, anyways, and she'd had things to do. Besides, it wasn't as if the Mojave didn't see disputes of that nature nearly everyday, especially outer Vegas, a destitute place full of vagrants, that in many ways had the means to be as successful as the city it surrounded, but refused due to small-time squabbles and infighting.

Meanwhile as she thought, beside her, Layla lay on the bed, looking altogether entranced and peaceful, his troubles dulled by the morphine. She wondered how it had came to this, how Layla and the other workers here had gotten hooked on the substance. Did it call to them because of the physical pain, or the mental anguish? His medium-length hair was splayed out, and his lips were mumbling words that she couldn't make out even if she strained.

Together, they had come to a mutual agreement that she'd pay twenty caps and some Med-X for every visit, which she knew was a bad deal, but it wasn't as if money was what she was after, so she'd agreed. The intrigue was the payment, more like. Discovering how the sociopolitical environment of Gomorrah worked was far more rewarding than caps, which could buy food but not entertainment. Besides, she had plenty of food at the 38.

Eris' fingers absentmindedly fidgeted, so used to grasping onto a cigarette while she was in deep thought. Her mind went through all the possible implications of her practically buying out Layla, wondering if he'd sell out Joanna too and tell her exactly how to get her to talk. She was pretty sure Med-X would do the trick there too, but Eris liked to check out all angles before acting.

Layla himself was quite the character, Eris had discovered. Behind the facade of doting cross-dresser who appealed to the most sadistic and unconventional of fetishes, there was a dreamer who wished he could've been assertively masculine enough to avoid sex slavery. From what he'd told her, one of his biggest heroes was Colonel Hsu, who, from afar, had a feminine idealism which was counteracted by his masculine determination. The hooker had let slip that there was none of that assertiveness and determination in him, and that it was far easier to submit to fate than fight against it for him.

She lounged next to the entranced cross-dresser, watching all the emotion, or lack thereof, flit across his poisonously fair face. Propping herself on an elbow, she traced the sheets, still deep in thought, though preparing to invade the peaceful stillness of the man next to her.

"If there was an opportunity for you to escape this place, would you?" She brazenly asked, aware that the man's faculties were too far gone for him to use self-preservation to cleverly lie.

"In a heartbeat, girl. I think you already know the answer…" His voice trailed off, tone of voice reflecting the blissful apathy that was housed inside of him, "Why.. do you have a proposition for me?" Ah, there was the hope.

"I'm sure, as clever as you are underneath all that lace and leather, you know I can't make any promises. But, I might have something brewing. Possibly."

The face that turned to her was no longer blissful and purposeless, now there was a tinge of hope. It was likely that even if Eris did have a plan, which she didn't, that the hooker would likely be killed if even one wrong move was made. House would definitely not approve of her relieving employees of their employers, and though they weren't exactly on speaking terms right now due to her fuck-up, or more like, due to his sensitivity with niche topics, she was sure he didn't want her toppling the sanctity of Vegas, which was the crowning jewel of her employer.

But.. if she could somehow make it look like an accident? Fake the death of Layla, somehow.. maybe she could reward him appropriately if he met his end of the deal.

"I knew there was something off about you ever since that night. You never want sex, you never want anything the others want. You come in for.. for conversation.. you're casing the Omertas, aren't you? And don't think I'm judging, most of us here are wishful for some kind of end to all this, but we all give in eventually to what they want us to do." He gave a small, sad smile, his eyes lifeless from the overwhelming euphoria, "I was always too pretty to be the man I wanted to be, too soft. I'll always want to be like those strong and capable men, to have a wife and son, even.. It was never my ambition to be a cross-dresser, catering to the most degenerate, most vile of men.."

This, _this_ , was why Med-X was so much better than alcohol. Alcohol turned its users into vegetables by the end of the night, and the vegetable they impersonated changed with each individual. Alcohol was inconsistent in how it effects others, sometimes they were violent, other times, flirtatious, and rarely, personable. Eris preferred bribing with this, and she knew she'd found the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. This was so much more consistent, and she liked consistency, at least, in others.

"I don't usually get to enjoy the waves, when I get a dose. So, thank you.. Also, I wanted to mention that I hope I haven't left a bad impression on you. For a long time, it was hard to see every single client as a business relationship, instead of some twisted, repugnant version of romance. If I wasn't a fucked up bundle of damaged goods, I'd ask you on a date, without all the drag." He said, waving at his form, which was all tight, black leather and straps.

If there was ever a moment of social discomfort for Eris, this was it. A part of her, the part that was more self aware, knew she had no sentimentality toward Layla, and knew that this was abnormal. That social part of her instinctively opened her mouth to form words, but none came out, and she found herself at a loss for what to say, other than laugh it off and tell Layla that she was just as degenerate as him. So, she stuck with that part, because it was easy, and because it was all she knew. Whoever Eris was before The Incident, was gone and was never to resurface, and that part of her that she _knew_ was her past self was yelling at her from within the deepest corners of her psyche to stop being such an ass.

She ignored it.

"No accounting for taste, huh? I can assure you that I'm not a standard you want to live up to, doll. If it makes you feel any better, I'd accept your proposition to go on a date over the countless others in line." There were no others in line, but Layla didn't need to know that.

He laughed then, mirthful but still empty in that way only Med-X could do to people. His eyes were twinkling now, and Eris laughed with him in equal measure. They laughed together for a few moments, and Eris decided that if she could, she would try to get Layla out, but that wasn't the main priority. Truthfully, she was finding it easy to lose the main priority of this job, and perhaps that was due to the ingenuity of the Omertas' excess?

"So much charm, so much freedom to do what you like. I would envy you if I wasn't so in awe. You're so unlike anyone… I've had, I mean, _met_ before." Layla said, leaning closer. The Med-X had put a silly smile on her face, and Eris was pleased to see that the nonchalance she engineered was enough to relax him.

"Wow-wee-wow! Is that a gun in your dress or are you just happy to see me?" She replied, laughing between words, "In all seriousness, though, I'm sure my ego is about to implode if you don't stop. This is a, _ahem_ , tactical retreat for me. Just announcing it now."

"Fine, fine…" Layla said amiably, rolling his eyes before straightening his face as much as possible with the morphine in his veins, "I know you have an agenda now, you've been skirting around it for some time, and since it's about disrupting this place, I'm in. But I have one condition, and that'll be the last time I ask you for any kind of payment.."

Considering this, Eris tilted her head in curiosity, certain that he'd want either freedom or relocation.

"What would you ask of me? Your wish, after all, is my strong recommendation."

"You don't need to tell me who you work for – I think I know, and I know _he_ has a lot of resources, a lot of influence. The only thing I ask is that you get me out of here when it's all said and done, I know if anyone can do it, you could."

As of now, she didn't know how this would end, but the logical conclusion entailed the Omerta leaders' deaths, and that was only if the plot was seditious enough. There were many factors to this, and for all she and her employer knew, the Omertas were just doing shady business with blacklisted vendors for… heretofore unknown contraband. Thus, she couldn't make any promises with conviction. But, she saved those rare moments of honesty for House these days, he could take it – usually. Through their discussions, she got her daily dosage of honesty, and that was nearly always enough for her needs.

"I'll see what I can do. But I need you to do something for me, before I can make good on that. This isn't for some kinda personal gain, nothing like that. It isn't so you can prove yourself, either.." She paused for effect, sighing, "I need you to inform me about that guy who's staying here, the one all of you are afraid of. I've only heard rumors so far, and while rumors make up the foundation of truth, they're not substantial enough. If you could get me some kind of tangible evidence, well, I think I could be pretty damn close to what I need to give you your freedom. You up for this?"

A spark of fear was in his eyes, but it was dulled by the high. Eris braced for a refusal, mildly irritated by the idea of having to cozy up to another hooker and go through the exact same process as this yet again. She loathed repetition.

"All I know is that his name is Clanden, he's got his own suite and everything. Nobody really knows why, we just know that he's a.. freak, and not the good kind." Her brow quirked at that, as she'd yet to hear Layla use the word 'freak' to describe anyone.

"Find out more about him, but don't take any unnecessary risks, if he's dangerous." Eris said, rising from the bed, eager to find another pack of cigarettes at the 38.

"You're leaving?" He called out to her, and she nodded, giving him a coy look.

"I'll be back tomorrow evening. You know I never stay gone too long.."


End file.
